Tag Archives: Stories

Tell me your story

I like knowing. I like knowing people and their stories.
I’m a story collector. I like people and their stories, I like knowing about them, their dislikes, addictions, all the little stories that make them who they are today. I like listening. I like knowing why a person hurts so much, what they feel when they hit rock bottom & what they want to do from there on. In a way, their stories become a part of my life. Part of me. Even if THEY don’t.
Their stories teach me. They talk to me. Whisper their undertones. Hold my hand lovingly & lead me into the unknown. I love knowing people, love listening to them talk about themselves, the way they work, their weaknesses, their habits. I like people when they’re vulnerable because it makes me feel special. It makes me feel like a part of their lives, a part of their story.
Oftentimes, I catch myself thinking about a person very subconsciously. Like I’d be sitting there in class waiting for the lecture to commence & I listen to what I’m thinking about & I find a person there. If I don’t know a person well or his story, I imagine stories that make them what they are based on my judgments of them.
I like talking to people. I really do. Each one of them gets their beautiful colourful patch of story & stick it on my wall. They help me complete my patch wall. They help me complete my story. I like talking to them, knowing their story. I can drink my coffee for hours if I have someone to tell me their story. I like it when I hold someone’s hand, sit them down and say, “Tell me why you’re hurting”. Not because I want to be there for that person ( I mean I do but that’s not the focus). Because I WANT to know what hurts them. The things that hurt people, makes them happy, makes them cry. I like knowing these things. What I say next might just be the stupidest thing ever but of all the stories, I like knowing sad stories the most. The reason being that even the smallest thing makes someone happy. If someone gifts me a pen tomorrow, I’d be the happiest person on Earth. We KNOW happiness. We seek happiness in sadness. We LIKE to be happy. No one likes being sad. No one likes a broken heart. No one likes their wounds because they think it makes them look ugly.
I think sadness is beautiful. Pain is beautiful. Pain is such an overwhelming feeling. It’s merely an abstract but yet so powerful in its intricacies. It’s merely a feeling but yet so sharp that you feel as if someone’s poked something into you. It is merely a word but yet a word spun into phrases, poems, sonnets and paintings. Pain is an art, a war, the darkness that eludes any form of hope, an inspiration, a deep wound, a silent longing, a desired somnolence and a crucial part of our lives.
Pain is the nightmare we wake up from when it’s over and look back to see how strong we really are. Pain is acceptance of things that did not go our way. It is the struggle that helps us become sensitive. It is the cement that helps build those walls around us. It is the anaesthesia that numbs us to other feelings or emotions. It is the hollowness of the eye, the texture of a hand you once held, the streams of mascara on the face when it rains, the soft, concealed sighs at night..it’s so beautiful. And this is the kind of beauty I like. Not because it’s fun or anything. Because it’s so abstract & deep. You can tell someone what “happy” feels like (Sunshine in the rain, A jar of nutella (as my sister defines it), hot coffee on a cold night). But you can’t tell someone how pain feels without being subjective. People who express pain through words & arts intrigue me. They teach me so much! They immediately gain my respect & a very special place on my story wall. Tell me a happy story & I’ll hug you, celebrate it with you, buy you coffee even! Tell me a sad story & I’ll sit there with you under the rain or the starry night sky, cry for you, hold your hand & ask you to tell me more. I’ll stay up all night, listening to you talk about how much you hurt, the places you hurt in, your inhibitions. I’ll hold you for as long as you’d like, kiss your forehead & let you cry in pain till you’re numb all over again.
Yes, I like stories. I’m a “Story collector”. Tell me your story; I’ll love your wounds will all my heart. I’ll photograph your beautiful smile & give you a flower. I’ll listen. Hold your hand when you want me to. Make you coffee. I don’t judge. Every story is inherent to the person telling it. I’ll give you a warm blanket so you don’t have to go away at night when it’s cold.
Tell me a story. YOUR story. Complete mine :)
Oh & after you finish telling me your sad story, I’ll hug you as we leave and say, “Tell me another story tomorrow”.

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