In my previous life I was a story teller.
Dragging myself from village to village,
where people would throw me some coins
to weave fantasy around their mundane lives
At my will
I would make them cry
Children rolled over and clapped with joy
as my characters
faced the most absurd plots I could weave
who would neither laugh
nor shed a tear,
as he stood there
staring at me.
Would u like to hear a story ? I asked him.
“not unless it is the story of all stories” he said
And wherever I went he would be there
watching and listening,
‘can u tell me the story of all stories ?’
How could there be one story that defined all stories ?
and if there were
what value would I have ?
if there be just one story to tell ?
‘You are of no value to me’ he said
‘unless you can tell me the story of all stories’
And he walked away
never looking back
How could I make a living
If I told the same story
again and again ?
But I died.
Never being able to tell another story
Have you ever died of thirst
in the presence of a glass of water
that you cannot see ?
And into this life
He came again.
He took my hand
and showed me the ocean
and asked me to see,
and to observe
For the story of all stories was there,
a story that had no end
and no beginning.
Each rising swell
a new Plot that arose from the ocean
and then merged back
and immedietly going back to the source
The Story of all Stories