“The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live: a live thing, a story.”
Let me take some time to let that soak in, a new thought absorbed ...
The unread story, does it live? What about the untold story? Where does it begin? In the initial act, the experience as it was? Or in the recounting of it?
Do we only begin once our own experience is shared? What was the experience before it was touched or felt or passed along from one mouth to another's ears?
Are we only that which we share? Are we developed like photos. Do our stories sit empty, blacked out, glossed over, indistinguishable until touched with intentions of sharing. When do our stories balloon into contrasted lines with rigged edges and smooth curves against faded backdrops? Only when another pair of eyes sets sight on the image that we have created?
Would our lives, our family ancestry, our cultural and political history, our daily interactions cease to exist without the sharing of ourselves?
What is inside of me that even I have not seen without the ability to mold and materialize through the act of giving. What is tucked away, left without the propensity to travel through centuries of time by the lips of men and women willing and waiting to share the story of ME.
Who am I? What is my story? Is my story me?
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