stories

what if all these stories we tell ourselves
and the stories we’re told
the stories we sell ourselves
the stories we’re sold
the stories we sell ourselves
with

were stories

simply
nothing more

stories we write and rewrite
unwrite and outwrite
stories that are sometimes shared
sometimes just hold
us together
in another bigger story
through which our souls are sold
our souls are untold
what if the stories we hold
up as the all-encompassing
all-defining
all existing

were simply stories
nothing more?

what if the story has no ending?
what if it didn’t have no beginning either?
what does it tell us about the story?
and what does it tell us about ourselves?

these are stories we carry
the stories through which we hurry
the stories in which we worry
and the stories we worry about

these are the stories that elude us
from the illusion
we made one
but which may be
the only true story behind the story
all the stories

the illusion that we could simply be
and exist
outside of the story
beyond it
behind it
in front of it
on top of it
underneath it
outshine it?

what if the story
is just a story
about another story
another one about which we worry
in which we’re sorry
for things that could exist
outside of the sorries
and worries
and sorrows
about what may come tomorrow
and what yesterday’s story had been about

what if the story we hold
the story we’re told
and the story we tell ourselves
about ourselves

are just that
stories
simply
nothing less
nothing more?