More stories

The air smells of grass and dirt, water and salt. The bench old and brown, the atmosphere calm and quiet.You sit there unknowing of all the stories around you so you make up some on your own to restore your sanity. 

The guy with the red shirt soaking in all the sun he could get? He has been there for long, he does not seem to mind the time he has left. The woman on the bench across from you is talking feverishly to her partner, he seems to be watching her, listening but not quite. Look, red shirt guy just stood up and walked away, maybe time bothered him now. Passerbys, you recognise them: grocery bags, their handbag caught in between trembled and cold fingers. Their pace fast while they register the moments they could not have here. 

The trees start to dance. 

You feel cold and your fingers become cold too. You wear your jacket and try to tuck your hands in. Failing, you decide to leave. Maybe tomorrow you will create more stories. 


Anonymous said...

The stories we can make up are endless; there are books out there that could be written. We only see the stories that reflect our own emotions, and no matter how much we try to see the real stories, we'll never do. We'd need more than this vague vision to get there. Yet we can always find stories for the love of stories.

Good piece, and great idea.

Maryam said...

We can make a story for the lack of one. Thank you for passing by Anonymous.

Azza Al Wahaibi said...

Beautifully written. - I love the fact you still write passionately words that cannot be expressed and cannot be spoken of. This series of stories reminds me of an account I follow on instagram that each picture has different stories of people of New York City.