If We’d Ever Stop Telling Stories

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then maybe i’d no longer reminisce the way my grandfather used to tell me about the 60s and tragedy. the way he’d always wanted to be seen as tough and fierce, while i was being held finding it hard to imagine since he’s always been warm and soft and had the most comfortable belly.

then maybe there’d be no longer deep conversation across our coffee table. only silence. we’re going to dwell in our own thoughts instead of each other’s.

i’d never know how much my mom’s into traditional herbs and cuisines. and, thus, jewel of the palace was the only drama she fell in love with. i’d never know my dad was a terrible tarkam soccer player, but a child prodigy in drawing.

there’d be no more theories of how the universe was constructed. we’d be stop staying up late discussing about der führer’s love life or the conquest of constantinople under the ottomans. i’m not gonna hear anything about your tendency to classic rocks. or how you perceive women who work. or how you’d think humans get extinct in the end of the world.

if we’d ever stop telling stories, there’d be no ideas to express, nor memories to value. we’d be two souls staring at each other’s eyes with nothing to say: lifeless and empty. lonely.

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picture taken from a scene of Before Sunrise (1995).

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