And ever up the staircase of life, we climb. For new beginnings and ends to meet. For meaning to be lost and found in the small and big. But there we are the human surrounded by it all. Never knowing of the grandeur of it all.
Writing our small little stories for our hearts to keep. And even if it fades to dust even when nothing more than whispered words in the wind are left. Still, then our little story will be told through what not we achieved ourselves but of what we left behind. To the human of tomorrow, shaped by our past. To them, the wind whispers and tells of all the small stories we wrote. They tell of pain and they talk of joy. The wind knows of nothing more than the little stories left behind. He blows through the city streets and village towns sometimes he stays and then he leaves.
And as time flows the stories will change flow with the whispers of its kind. They will and have been known by many names as they get told from mouth to mouth. They will add and subtract to fit the current harts that live but no matter how far they flow the substance of the human will stay ever strong. As we have known love and pain for all time sometimes big stories and sometimes the small of the life of the simple man.
And then again, we find ourselves. Far stranded on the islands of distant minds. Thoughts so far from our own that we might never learn their price. Languages are so unknown that we might never understand no matter how hard we try. But I beg you to look from another side as no matter how much we change we all share a human mind. Don’t be intimidated by distant worlds as we will never be able to truly grow apart.
So, take your pen or take your mouth and live for our distant and close kind. Don’t forget that ever and write your small stories because they are the most important kind.
© Marko Kapusta 2023-06-26