The Important Stories

“Everyone has a story of his own”. What do you understand by that statement? We all know what a story is, but what is a person’s story? Is it the history of his struggle? The battles he’s fighting? His origin? I suppose the immediate answer is that it’s just an explanation for the person’s current state and disposition, presented with short parts, excerpts taken from his screenplay from scenes already played out. That’s the only version of the definition of a person’s story that can make it be considered at least somewhat interesting, universally. But I look at stories, people’s stories differently.


I think it’s fair to say that everyone has big things happening in his life every now and then, both miracles and tragedies. You see then why I don’t find stories composed only of those moments so fascinating. If you heard enough of them, if you know how your own story is constructed, all stories built in that fashion become universal, indistinguishable. There are two things, that truly determine the value of a story, be it real or fictional: the world, and I’ll talk about it in a future post, and the context.

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The Right Place

I’m not a particularly emotional person. And until recently, I wasn’t really affected by neither beauty nor tragedy, and it came naturally to me. Perhaps it was the depression preventing me from doing so, perhaps it’s because for a long time in my adult life I actively avoided taking the time to try and care on an emotional level. This only made the fact that this whole time I’ve been falling in love with seemingly common places so easily, liked I briefly mentioned in one of my previous posts, even harder to understand.


I said before, that I enjoy the common. I call it the “beautiful nothing”. The cornfield as seen through a window on a train, a lonely tree growing in a field of barley, that sort of thing. Of course, many people do find cornfields weirdly appealing. And what isn’t magical about a single tree in a sea of gold? But you don’t understand how much “common” exactly I can and do enjoy. And even I don’t understand what makes them so special to me.

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The Exciting Train

Most people can’t wait to go to college to feel the freedom of an adult life, others are simple excited about all the parties that teenage TV shows have promised. There are even those who didn’t get the ambitious part of their personality broken by bored, underpaid high school teachers, and will enjoy acquiring the new knowledge. Not me, though. I’ve already established, I believe, that I’m usually different from most people when it comes to everyday life motivation and ideas. You see, I was excited about something else entirely: the train rides between my home, and my college. That’s right. I like trains.


I can’t remember what seemed so great and fun about them when I was a kid. But I do remember, and this was back when we lived in a city, how my parents used to take me on train rides, just outside of town and back, because I loved it so much. I try to think of the reason for my love for trains, but I honestly can’t remember anymore. I only know why I like them today, and have liked them my entire adult life.

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The Many Solitudes

I don’t think there’s a single person on the planet who doesn’t enjoy solitude at least occasionally. But it’s interesting why exactly those moments alone are so important to us. The easy answer would be, I don’t know, something obvious, like “taking a break from social interactions”, “getting away from annoying people”, “the chance to be yourself without witnesses”, the easy stuff. And yet different people enjoy solitude differently. More than that, there isn’t just one type of solitude in the first place. 


I’m sorry, if this one sounds a bit off. Putting my thoughts into words, especially a foreign language is proving more difficult, and at the same time more exciting than I predicted.

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Up around the bend

I live in a very special area, I think. I’ve already told you about the silver lights festival, but it’s only one of many wonders that can be found just a bicycle trip away from my summer home. It’s pointless to list them all, since as you would quickly discover, what I understand as a “wonder” might very well be something or somewhere fairly common, but inexplicably special to me, I’ll talk about that later. I’ll just stick to my contemplations on the very process of travelling, and specifically, why the way I do it is not fun enough for anybody who’s not a fan of sailing on the calmest waters, but remains exciting for me.


This one might be harder to read. But I warned before, that I will discuss thoughts that I don’t really understand as well.

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Lying is an art

Sometimes I wonder what was the first lie ever told. Could’ve been something small, like “I didn’t eat your mammoth”, or “I didn’t break your stick”, but it could’ve been something bigger, like “we’re going to be alright”, “I’ll take care of you”. I suppose it comes down to whoever was born first: a con man, or a hero.


Mark Twain said that the religion was created, when the first con man met the first fool. Might be true. That would make this con man the most important person in the human history. He set the precedence with which we still struggle today. He would be a genius, wouldn’t he? We’re talking about times when supposedly complete honesty was the way to go. Due to lack of any known alternatives, but still. And he broke out of that system, introduced something new. More than that, he manipulated it. This has to be the biggest scam in the human history, if you think about it. How did he even came up with that idea? What thought process led him to invent a god? It’s easy for us, of course, there are thousands and thousands of deities across the various cultures and fictional worlds, but back then, this was an absolute novelty, a fresh idea. Something that at the time had to seem so abstract, so surreal, and yet he sold it. Of course, there’s a chance he believed his own theories. He lied to himself, in other words.

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The Blue Night

I think I always preferred nights to days. And I know that many people do too. But I also know, that the way I enjoy it, is special. Unique. Everyone always says, that the darkness of the night allows us to “be who we really are”, to “be our true selves”, without reluctance, without the need to hide anything, but that’s not it, I think. Not exactly.  It’s usually the people who have nothing to hide, that are the ones who claim to can’t wait to “be their true selves” when the night falls.

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It’s something about the Moon, I think. The stars are beautiful, don’t get me wrong. The starry sky, as seen from the middle of nowhere, when you can see that milky arm stretching across the horizon, and milions of stars spread throughout the void, that’s special. But all I need to enjoy the night, or maybe to enjoy it to the fullest, is the Moon.

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Read first: My Calmest Waters

Here’s the thing: I think too much. It’s not necessarily a bad habit, of course. But it is challenging. I spend too much time in my head, I imagine, I wonder, I live there. I get unusual ideas, and I stick to them for some reason. I come up with ridiculous notions, that just won’t go away. My thoughts are like an infection, that overpowers my mind. Again, that’s not a bad thing. It just sounds creepy.

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