Stories exist in the soul and ricochet through the human condition, as echoes and reminders of the lives that were lived. Hidden in wrinkles on the skin, photos placed purposely in wallets, hardship and happiness, in the rings of a tree and those that are tied to our fingers. Much of our lives are expressed as we live them, reflected on in the moment or seconds after, on long car rides with friendly company, or nostalgic words scribbled on the page of a journal. Humanity has a fundamental need to be heard; to learn from others, to connect and have their words live on past the gravestone.
Like shadows in the dark, the Storytellers are concealed from sight. Some call what they create Fate or Chance, mindless myths to satisfy the loneliness of humanity. As if they have a choice in the matter, some say it’s Karma, that they have the power to be in control of the world around them. To live their life full of car rides and peaceful new friendships, of new money and painted white fences, of perfectly clear memories laced to eyes and soul; carefully avoiding harm, water under the bridge.
Our need to be heard brings them to light. Memories created regardless of whether or not they want to be told, the Storytellers give us the reality to be replicated. Creating failure and success, connections and heartbreak; feelings and experiences that build off of each other, destructing and creating as we go throughout paths of life, running and turning like the rings of a tree. Never slowing down, never stopping; bound to the slip of the tongue or a well thought out imagination.