Conversations with friends back home or elsewhere out of sight are like distant glimpses strung along a timeline of gaps. A rememberance of feelings collected over time. And how different is that to listening to music or reading a book.
People have a thing for stories. People are stories. When you interact meet listen to or make love, you’re writing a story of what you are feeling, remembering, and editing it with the things you want to drop. People aren’t people. We are stories and story-tellers.
A collective mosaic of memories saved since we first met. Stories of colorful lifeforms, character, style or glamour – or humility, anger, outrage and bravado. But a character innately their own. Not mundane and always vivid. Even in their absence.
The compelling reads stick around the longest. But the artistic ones humble. And you hang on to their presences as if it were hope itself. Presences not measured by distance but by essence. The artistic expressions of life. Good after a thousand replays.
We chase through to the finish the ones that live out our fantasies, hopes, vicariously pushing our minds boundaries and life experiences. The ones that end in abject tragedy or heroic fortitude, stories of stellar creativity with spontaneos combustability, bright sparks and divinely centrilocuted vortexes. Fragments of our own unlived life vivaciously dancing on our own private canvas to invoke for inspiration or relish.
My most memorable relationships are the best stories I have read, heard, or mosaic-ed. I am eternally grateful to the multifaceted, or zensingle-faceted, lovelinesses that have humbled me with their multiform.