My Stories

What am I made of?

Flesh and blood? A collection of organs, glands and bones wrapped inside a suit make of human tissue? An exotic matrix of DNA and its variants, woven together by an unknow
Source?

No, it is not that elaborate. In fact, it is all too simple.

I am made of stories. Self published. Edited to the point whereby the original is so distorted at times, it is no longer recognizable. One day I am a blue eyed teacher who likes to write Haiku. The next a slow poke runner who looks better in yellow versus green. Then a writer who desires a vacation in the Keys and a conch meal. My stories explain me one day, and betray me the next.

My stories pile up the way a farmer piles up bails of hay. Sometimes my stories are varied. I say I love people, except for those I do not like. I am tolerant, except for those for whom I disagree with. I lay claim to patience, except when I deem another as being too slow for the given task. These are all true, except for the fact that they are not true.

Sometimes my stories are like streaks of lightning, flashing for a brief time, only to be lost into the unknown. I am kind, intelligent, creative and giving, only to see these traits flash and disappear into the night, depending upon the context. Where do they go?

Sometimes my stories are found treasure, like the divers who found priceless gold and jewels in the sunke
Atocha. At moments of weakness, I find strength. At moments of confusion, I see clearly. At moments of blistering anger, compassion comes forth to soothe the ones in need. Where do they come from?

Sometimes my stories are confusing, like listening to a word that is mispronounced. I seek the quiet yet live a life of loudness and continual sound. I want, and also want to be free of wants. I crave freedom, yet too often am a slave to my thoughts.

Sometimes my stories are one of pretending. I pretend I am not enough, despite knowing we are all complete as is. I pretend I have lack, yet am surrounded by abundance. I pretend I can’t, but have decades of proof of doing.

At the end of the day, I am just my stories.

As the days lead into years, I realize I am not my stories.

I just am.