Queen of stories
This is the story about a queen of stories.
About a world that was lightless, and then it was pure bright.
It’s about writing, reading, playing, acting, building and rebuilding.
It’s a story about stories.
There once was a star, and it crossed the skies unraveling narratives with its brightness. It watched, and it was seen. Before it was a star, it was nothing. Or maybe it was dust, or a magical powder, or the clumsy energy that existed before everything else came to be. That part it’s well hidden, and not much is known of the star’s past. It was simply not there yet, and then it was already shining. Some say it’s there still.
But this is only the beginning, for stars they never really stay, and what we see it’s just the star’s past, not the star’s present. It is said that one day, on the coldest and yet warmest day of the year, the star fell. It did not scream all the way down, but enjoyed the wind and hoped for the best.
The star fell to earth, and from inside the star a child was born. A small, graceful child that was rapidly embraced by the village nearby. She was taken with love and raised in kindness. Or maybe she was the one that raised them in gentleness, sweetness and affection. There was joy wherever the girl was, and as soon as she began talking, she began building.
Stories upon stories and tale upon tale she would wonder. About her sister’s future and some mouse’s past. About what will be of the forest when they’re all gone, and what was the earth like when there was nothing there.
And then she wrote, for saying it all loud was not quite enough.
What if Ezaya took a turn right instead of left this morning. What if the sun never came up… would night continue forever? What if stars…. What if stars were once people. Maybe each star is a collection of a hundred different people, all stories mixed and twisted together. Cause nothing is born out of nowhere, and everything was and will be part of something.
She would write, she would tell, she would dream.
Mysteries about unknown lands, unborn people and impossible things. For nothing is really unfeasible when you grab ideas with your own hands and shape them into reality.
The girl grew old and strong, shielded by her people, surrounded by words, infested with narratives. There were no walls long enough, hard enough to stop her. All small wonders thrive in the end. They flourish and spread.
When she was tired, when she was all tears, when everyone was gone. All she did was there still.
She lived for centuries, and the years embraced her as an old friend.
Playing, writing, screaming or just thinking. Wherever she was, there it was that light that dared not to go out. Dared to continue existing.
The not-a-girl-anymore was all perfectly imperfect details. The stories were embedded in her. In her flesh, her bones, her tiny cells all rebelling, each one an entire universe collapsed in such a small space.
She turned storytelling into her mission.
Storytelling, storymaking, storyloving.
Even though sometimes she didn’t believe it herself, there was nothing she could not dream. Nothing she could not be. Nothing she could not make.
Her stories survived even when she didn’t. Like stories usually do when they’re loved and cared for.
The best part of it is that she wasn’t alone. She found others. She raised others. They raised her as well. Kings, queens, monarchs of all kinds and genders. They ruled the stories and were ruled by them. Day after day. Year after year.
Building stars. Destroying stars. Dying, becoming, and doing it all over again.
