Sunday, March 16, 2014
Stories we tell
This evening I took a walk after dinner. One of the few benefits of Daylight Savings Time is being able to walk in the evening. It was cold though, below freezing, so I didn't walk for very long, less than half an hour. While I walked, I thought of stories. The ones I read. The ones I write. The ones I tell myself about my life. The ones I tell myself about the world, and the people in it, both those close and those distant. All the stories are told as a way to figure out why.
When I was young, very young, I was taught that it was bad to tell stories. Even if they were true. So I kept my stories to myself. But they've always clamored to come out and play, so as I got older I let them out once in awhile. But I make sure they stay in the yard. That's called self-censorship. I'm good at it. Too good. It hobbles my stories. They pace the fence line, wearing the ground bare. You've seen the animals in the zoo? Pacing. Around and around and around. Never quite getting to where they want to go.
There's a mess of stories I want to/need to tell. And I have to let them jump the fence in order to do so. Some of them have been pacing the fence line for a long time, and I'm not sure what they'll do once they're free. Others haven't been caged long at all, and their muscles are not atrophied, and I'm hoping they'll lead the way.
Some of them will be sex stories–erotica–because hey, it's me writing. But there's a lot more to me, much of it kind of heavy, and those stories need to be let out too. My head's kinda full. What's going to be interesting is that some of the stories are about heavy and about sex. Those may be the first out of the cage.
How many stories can one hold back and not go crazy?