A million stories…

Sometimes I think people are like books, and living is like we are constantly walking around in a vast endless library: all we get to see are book covers, the binding, the textures, the character and the personality of the letters and the title. Most of the times we walk around wondrously, completely caught up in our own world, utterly oblivious to the fact that every single one of those books holds their own intricate and complex story. Sometimes, we do judge books by their covers, and on certain occasions, we are one hundred percent right and the stories inside of those books are just as disappointing as their covers. But other times… some rare and special books do capture our attention in a positive way, and we are compelled to explore, to read, to understand… to dwell marvellously into the story….   They capture us. They mesmerize us as they strike chords inside our hearts. And then, for those moments, and maybe for a lifetime, those stories also belong to us.

So when I am walking aimlessly in the street, I observe all the people rushing by me inside their own complex worlds and minds, and I can’t help but imagine that they are all just like books… in a way they are books: they are individual stories, full of complex narratives, subjects, personalities, intertwined into other lives, and other stories…

A couple walks by me, she is mad as hell and the guy beside her is trying to cheer her up, she continues walking ignoring his plight; an old man tries to walk through the crowd with a cane, his face is covered with lines and grey hair that hold a thousand secret stories of a whole lifetime; a mother holds the small hand of a little girl with golden locks stuttering over her shoulders (she’s got this adorable white shirt on, a great big red bow on the side of their hair and a huge smile on her face); a young man probably in his mid twenties carries his guitar as he walks past staring at the ground, he has a concerned expression on his face, a sort of broken half-smile and these hidden sort of eyes.

They are books…. we are all books…. and at best, the closest people to us have read a couple of chapters or four of them… at best. Everything else, remains still unwritten, unknown or unread. But the truth is that for some people, their whole lives (that they are living at this moment) is just one single chapter, and they don’t even realise it: they take it as their whole lives, and probably, with that attitude, it will be. Those people forget that live is an open-ended story, waiting for us to define it, create it and live. But others… others understand this, and they know that life is indeed what we make of it, and that our life story, although it might follow some sort of pre-destined design, always remains unwritten…

The picture above was taken in Venice, in February.

Sarah Frances Dias

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