Stories

Considering this blog is all about stories and thoughts and looking below the surface colors of the world.... I thought I'd pull up some older thoughts about stories themselves. Or at least how I view them.

I name thee my artsy post... So I shalt add many artsy
photos to make it look like my thoughts are very deep.

Because in the end, what is a story? A pile of squiggles thrown onto a page. A storm of pictures breathed from a metal box. A heap of memories sewn into a cloak of a daydream. A sea of sound waves flung out into the ears of another.

I mean seriously, doesn't this seem crazy to anyone else? We live, fight, love, cry, rejoice, and let our emotions get uproariously manipulated because of combinations of sounds and black marks. I mean isn't that crazy?


Life doesn't always make sense.

I guess that's what makes it beautiful.

The following is actually something I wrote a while back....

I live in two places at once. Some see a film and move on. Some casually think of a story and move on. I don’t. I can’t. I don’t just observe stories, I absorb them. I watch or read a story, and from the moment it first caresses my eyes, a spark ignites.

I don't know who the artist is, but I LOVE these pictures. I
I love how each ones seems to hold a story.

Sometimes it’s not a stranger’s story, but my own; woven together out of dust and rubble, sewn together with wings of color and movement, before being set free to run rampant through my head. But no matter where the story comes from, from the moment I start, a doorway opens. The world blurs, hours pass, reality fades, and, inside my head, a storm rages, pulling me into its depths.

Not every story is strong. Some manage only to weakly tug, feebly pleading with me to come and pulling with spider web strands that fall apart the minute they hit a bump. Others pull powerfully for a little while, but blow themselves apart after a few gusts.

But with the truly potent stories, I’m gone from the minute I step out of reality. They sweep me away, jerking me around with almost terrifying power, and leaving to catch my breathe however I can. Responsibilities fade, priorities die, and everything “real” is swept away in a vice-like grip of a story that will not let me go.

Whoever said that stories were safe was an idiot. Do not be fooled. Stories are not safe. Nothing about them is safe. Stories are not meadows, they're storms. They are hurricanes with power beyond comprehension. They will just as soon tear you apart as put you back together.

The story sweeps me along, pounding me until I'm almost breathless and drowning until suddenly...

...the worlds collide. My grip on reality is forcibly yanked from my hand, and for a moment, I am truly not part of this world. The door, cracked from the minute I began, blows open, letting me, and for a short while, I am truly part of the story. I am the character. Reality does not exist. I don’t have to think about what this character would do because I am the character. I know on an instinctual level, their motives, emotions, passions, and everything else. I understand them, because for just a moment, our worlds are together and we are one. For just a bit, we stand on the crest of the worlds, totally united on a wave of two separate, and equally real, worlds. For just a moment, we are one.

And then, the waves pass on. It takes different amounts of time, depending on the story. Some last only for a brief scene, a few pages in a book, a few seconds in a film. Other span entire books and movies, even radiating out for days afterwards. The ones crafted from my own head last the longest, often  lasting for days on end, as I move around in an almost dreamy state, still lost in the torrent of another world. It’s a beautiful feeling while it lasts, and it leaves behind a faint tinge of joy, of longing, of wistfulness.

But the passing of the waves is incredibly painful. The two waves, forcibly held together for just a short while, finally break free of their constraints, and yank my very being apart as it divides back into two. I scream, even my voice breaking apart as my memories shatter and die. The stories that have reached here are strong. VERY strong. And they don’t let go easily. I fight, both to separate and to stay together, unable even to read my own splintering thoughts. I wander around the house, knowing I need to disconnect with my story, and yet unable to rejoin reality. I mope around, depressed and listless, unable to find a reason to stay in this world. I fight and scream and moan and then....

By the same artist I talked about...

...it’s over. Except it’s not. The waking up hurts, but it also scares me. I wonder how I can ever do it again. I hide from stories, only letting myself brush the surface of them, clinging to the dock with my might, and only letting their sweet perfumes lap at my toes. And yet I miss them. I miss the stories. I miss the vitality they bring me, but I’m also afraid of the death that follows it. But I question: How can I deal with reality if half of my head isn’t here? How can I learn to deal with real world problems if I can’t stay in it? How can I learn to balance both worlds when I can’t get two steps into a story without being swept away?

The problem is the best stories, the ones I truly love, the ones that let me live in a way that few other thing can, are the strongest. And inevitably, they are the ones that sweep me away. I love the power of the current, but fear the struggle of swimming back. I curse my imagination, my inability to casually wade into a story... and I wonder how people can live without it.