The Stories

The Stories
I am the waking of dust after the first drops of rain. I feel the nervous jitter of unspoken stories in my stomach and on my lips, and there’s this recurring sensation of feeling like a mute. I am the alone, standing with upturned palms to the sky. The stories fall on me like a cascading torrent, and I’m overwhelmed, and I can’t catch them, and I am drowning. I do not have the words to free them. They are just too many. Or they don’t come at all. Yet, a relentless stream of stories always returns and struggles for freedom. In me. Around me. I breathe them. I can’t breathe because of them. They echo everywhere. I hear them in the silence of the morning before the birdsongs that break the day, just beneath the hum of the running a.c., the taunting songs of time whizzing by. But in rare moments of clarity, my nervous hand, like the Israelites hurriedly crossing the Red Sea, my hand streams freely and quickly one of these teeming stories: it’s about someone, maybe a people; no! It’s about this person…this one man, who would escape from burning buildings unscathed. But that was a long time ago. He’s now but a shadow of that man. No more a superhero. He has forgotten what that feels like…



One thought on “The Stories

Thank you :-)

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