The Story of a Little Story

Once there was a little story who wanted to grow. It wanted to be there for everyone, to learn and to teach. But the story was small and fragile, and so it was sitting in the memory – it’s the foggy place where all the best stories hide until someone finds them and brings them to the light.

You don’t own your memory, untold stories do. Sometimes the same thing is in your and other person’s mind, but you stay silent and you don’t recognize the other, and you imprison your story in the memory. It’s like forcing a butterfly to stay a caterpillar. Would you do that?

There’s an ambition of every little story to be known, fun and useful while it becomes bigger, and only some of them succeed. But sometimes they just want to grow just enough to go out and play with other stories, cause that’s what growing is about. Not all of them have to become tales, legends, or myths.

My little story was cooking a plot for a long time, but no one could pool out everything alone. It needed a help from a writer to go out and to socialize, and to visit some other memories. You see, stories like to travel like you do, it’s just they visit other people’s memories instead of places.

So my little story whispered me to become a writer. I told it:

  • But how? I’m not a writer I’m only eleven years old child.
  • Yes, but I’m seven years old story and I want to go out and play!
  • But how could you possibly be so old? Where were you all that time?
  • I was here in your memory.
  • Here?
  • You remember the yard where for the first time you went out to play in the dark? Remember when you saw the stars for the first time clearly and you fell in love with them?
  • Yes.
  • That’s when I fell into existence in your memory. And now I want to go out! Let me out!
  • Ok. Ok. I’ll try…

That’s how I wrote my first poem. It was about the night sky and it traveled to other people’s memories. That was one happy little story, fully grown into a poem. 🙂 But it became lonely. So I wrote another one, and another one, and so on. The stories were happy for a while, but then they were mad. They told me:

  • You almost never show us to other people! You never let us visit other memories. You just put us on paper!
  • Isn’t that enough?
  • No! We want to travel, to visit other people’s memories. We want to meet other stories! To be changed, to grow!
  • Oh! I’m sorry, but where could I show you? Do you want me to sell you?
  • No! We’re not for selling. We are precious.
  • Then what?!
  • Give us as a gift! It’s such a nice thing to be a gift. Gifts are noble. We want to be noble.
  • It doesn’t mean that you’re being noble if I give you as a gift. You want to be known as noble, but you’re just hungry for attention! 😀
  • Oh, give us already! Yes, we want attention!
  • I’ll think about it. You see if I let you out it will mean I need attention, and it’s very hard for me to admit that. It would ruin my ego to risk acceptance.
  • We will ruin your ego if you don’t let us out!
  • You can’t do that.
  • You can not hide us! Just look closely – we are your ego.

I decided to stay silent for a while, precisely for a couple of years, to see what happens. They ruined my plans! Untold stories, together with the ones out on the paper, got their way. Could be unimaginably dangerous not to tell a story. So I found a strength to share some of them, and some are waiting for writing. Some of them just got away finding their place on this blog, where they are playing with other people’s stories, forming a big playground of blogs.

Stories don’t listen to me, they just go where they want. They got the writer, they got the playground and company, now they want to visit other people’s memories! And to think everything began with one little story that fearlessly went out of memory 17 years ago. Crazy little things those stories! 😀

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