Thursday, July 3, 2014


We all have stories and we live shared
stories and we agree, on what is real,
and what is true, and on memories,
and experiences, dates, places, times,
where, some of it is true and some
less so,

but all of it was our agreement
as to who we were with each other,
and the life we lived together and
the relationship that we had..... and
then, suddenly, one of us decides
to change the story of our past,

to weave new ways of remembering,
through what has been, in a form
which bears no relation to the reality,
which is nothing like what it was,
and yet, is now their story of it all,
and one which is impossible for

others to share. Why does that happen?
How does that happen? What can one
then do with the history which was
once known, and which now stands
grieving, by the side of this new
recounting and accounting of what

was, and which is held up as a brittle,
imagined mirror of who you were,
who you are, and what you were
to each other? There is no answer
beyond that of: sometimes a story
is just a story and all you can do

is listen to it and respect it as the
truth of someone you love, which
you cannot share and which will
never be your truth, for, stories
are just that which we tell ourselves,
to make sense of our lives.

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