We each have stories We wish to tell.
We want our friends to know who we are so we feel understood.
A car nearly hits you.
A utility pole 10 yards away is struck by lightning.
You find a twenty dollar bill on your door step.
You hold in the story trying not to burst.
You calculate to who you want to share the story and at what time.
You rehearse the story in your head while scolding yourself for embellishments.
You encounter a friend. Now's the time. Out pours the story like water from a gutter in a cloud burst.
Did he listen? A nod, a chuckle, a few kind words convince you the answer is yes. As you go your separate ways You reflect on what a good friend he is .
There are other stories, dark stories, stories we are afraid to tell. The stories that haunt our dreams and ensnare our souls. They themselves resist being told. They are ugly, dark, sticky, slimy monsters that covet anonymity. They are true enemies. We only dare tell them to mentors, counselors, close family, or close friends. The irony of life is that dark stories brought to the light lose their power and are eventually discarded. Their memory no longer brings tears or angst.
A poor person pays large sums of money to tell a dark story to their shrink. The rich person pays nothing to tell it to a true friend.
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