Stories

Aren’t we all just made of stories?

Our lives begin and end

With stories.

Walking down the street

I encounter

Several hundred people.

Some we judge,

Others we simply ignore.

I sometimes wonder

What that lady in the red dress

Is going through;

Or that man with the blue bag.

I make up their stories in my head.

It’s a game I like to play.

Sometimes people play these games out loud,

Making up others’ stories.

A dangerous game.

Why are those girls

Sitting on benches and crying?

A fight?

Or a goodbye?

Why is that man cursing?

Bad luck?

Or voices in his head?

Several hundred people.

Several hundred stories.

I wish to know them all.