With my head resting in my palms and gaze directed up into the dark and deep abyss above me, characters from a time of what seems so long ago begin to rush back. There are so many of them, people that I’ve encountered throughout my time away from home. Even smells and sounds float back to my senses, rapidly taking me to unique places in time. It’s times like these that I wish I had someone to share these details of my life with. I wish that I could share and that they’d listen, not from obligation, but because they care enough to want to get lost in a good story. An ear who listens out of pure interest and not because it could get them somewhere; hidden motives.
People don’t have time anymore for good stories, not unless it pertains to them, and that’s the sad truth. It’s all about listening to themselves speak, or at the very least, being the protagonist of the current story being told. You’ve got to love the honesty too. When you’re trying to share a story, some people will let you know without speaking it so that they could care less about what you could be trying to share. Their gaze screaming, “I don’t care. I’m listening to be nice..” or my favorite facial expression, “I’m acting like I’m listening but also staring away to let you know I’m also kind of ignoring you.”
And so, I journal. I write down people, places, and things. I may not be able to verbally tell my stories, but I have faith that someday all the pages of most of my journaling will tell the stories that are meant to be shared. They will have their time. Until then, I will be that ear for others.I mean hell, everyone knows how much I do love a good story. So let them tell theirs. I’ll reminisce to myself, allowing for all those characters to swirl and dance, and melt together; live on inside my mind.