Do you think you need to know someone’s narrative to be close to them?
I guess that’s how it usually goes. The more time you spend with one another, so stories slip in out of relevance.
It’s hard to understand why sharing such things would make one feel close. It’s hard to understand why one would desire that sort of thing.
Maybe it’s weird to live without a past. But it’s really nice. In a way, writing online is a way to live without a past. Browsing around. Writing lets you drop everything else.
Yeah, in a way, it’s better to live without a past than to share any past at all. Whether that’s through sharing stories or making more along others.
Because it seems like experiences aren’t meant to be made into memories: they’re meant to be experienced differently, however varied, or forgotten altogether to experience the first time again. Do you know what you’d forget to experience again if you could?
Listening to memories seems so painful. The storyteller may walk with you but they’re elsewhere. Try as you might to join along, they’ll march further ahead in their clearer vision of a world faintly seen. And even when the story ends, they fade further into the fog of another story left unsaid.
Sharing memories seems like a way to insert oneself into another’s overarching Narrative – tying the earlier chapters to latter – and maybe one ought to be happy about that, experiencing that. But stories so long seem so heavy, and making inevitable footnotes out of others seems so uninteresting. Wouldn’t you rather make a book everyday?
The nice thing about daily book makings is how everyone starts off just being. There’s nothing to catch up on; there’s no scars to reiterate. Nor celebrations neither. A joy perfect in its emptiness. Just a ferris wheel view and maybe it seems superficial to stay in such a neglectful tune, but it never seems like memories patch things. Enhance things. It rarely seems like memories give one much of anything other than something to lug along each ride. Something to focus on while everything that’s so beautiful becomes muffled, smudged into margins.
All around you are those flagellating along, ink drops splattering along the bridge walkway, rail-road crossings – fields of yellow to orange and red rendered not as a bright flicker of leaves final breathings but lifelessly cluttered amongst an evening dimming, flattened.
Maybe there isn’t much to say nor story to unfold in this silent book-making world. But it seems like there is. There are bigger and bigger stories all around, and maybe the cast is too large to keep track of. But isn’t it nicer that way?
Instead of a classroom blackboard scribbled with goodbyes of friends’ threads deadened and flailing about one’s chain-of-mind – instead there’s a slate clean. There’s a chair waiting warmly and greetings between others filling for a new form of living. Maybe today the chalkboard reads about Gödel’s incompleteness theorems.
The best part about the daily bookkeeping is when one closes the book there’s not another one opened and waiting.
The null-space between only reminds how much is between the lines. In a world without words – the truest story as absurd it’d seem, a blank page containing everything.
If only one knew how to read a blank page.