Story telling is such a wonderful, grand thing. It's so interesting that no matter how old we get the age old appeal of "tell me a story" never really fades.
When I was a kid, my mom used to tell us stories. Her stories were generally about this white cat, who was incredibly prissy and smart, and about this brown poodle, who would fight with the white cat. I don't remember very much of them, but the fact that I remember them at all is something to be said for the art of storytelling.
When I was about nine, I started making my own stories. Up until that point I had only made up a character or two, but around this age the appeal or the story suddenly grew. The appeal mostly grew out of fear, actually. At this age I was terrified of the dark, and sleeping became a bit of an ordeal, unless I had something to think of. Usually I would think up some short little story, and then begin filling in characters, details, background, until I fell asleep.
Actually, I do that now, even. Although my fear of the dark has faded, (Although it makes me wonder that the fear of the dark is looked at as being something silly. Why wouldn't you fear the dark, or the unknown?) my love of stories has not.
The appeal of the story is different to every person, but it connects us so well together. This comradeship of the human condition, the beautiful mess we have all found ourselves in. The story of the universe, wide, and loud, explodes with us, and within our souls.
I love stories.
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