Telling stories | Invisible Maladies
I used to think about how people would like their stories to be told. Would it be narrated or not? Would they like some back sound? Would they see themselves as a hero or a commoner? On one occasion, a rare circumstance occurred when I ended up talking to a complete stranger about nothing and some other thing. Half sober, we started to talk about more personal things as the music getting louder. I suspected that he didn't even catch 65% of what I said as I couldn't completely hear what he said. Then it got me thinking - "How do we tell our stories?"
I thought about my self that night for the first time. If there was one thing that I was really bad at, it's gonna be taking care of my own self. My best friend whom I hadn't met in years once told me that I, unfortunately, unconsciously neglected myself for others. It's a curse that I kept trying to break. But that night, I thought about my self. How did I tell my stories?
I compartmentalised. I told my best friend some secrets that I would never ever tell others. But only some. I told some of my other friends, from a different circle, some other things that even my best friend didn't know. And then on that night, I told a that tall fair skin total stranger that one thing. One thing that I never told anyone. Ever.
Maybe that's how I tell my stories. It's like a scattered pieces of glass. In which I threw in all over the place, without anyone else knowing the red line of every story. And maybe one day, if there's ever anyone interested enough about a life of a common girl like me, maybe he or she would go over every trace that I left. Collecting piece by piece, and then telling the whole stories from his/her eyes.
After I thought about my self that night, I caught a glimpse of my mother on the corner of my mind. How she would wear her white dress and her pale lipstick at 5, waiting for my father to come back from work. Although most of the time, he never did. My mother, she never told anyone anything. She kept a good control of herself, that no word of pain that she felt ever slipped from her lips. If there was one way to know anything about my mother, it would be me. I was my mother only legacy. And a living memory keeper that cared enough to take a good observation how she lived her life, though it wasn't very long.
The thought of her sadden me. I quickly crossed that tears that almost come from the command control in my brain. I sipped another taste of wine. I kept talking, he kept talking. None of us were listening to each other. I just wanted to let the clutches in my breast to erupt. Then maybe I could learn to trust again. And in the company of the half-sober-tall-fair-skin total stranger, I found comfort to blurt out the pain that I never ever even let my best friend to peek.
*an excerpt of short story that I'm writing