Storytellers.....

If you search for a scientific and quantum physics explanation of time, it is a dimension, a world so far beyond our grasp that it is truly laughable.

If you search a logical explanation of time, it is fluid. Just seconds and minutes passing by.

If you search for a geographical explanation of time, its the rotations and revolutions of our mother Earth in the milky way.

What I ask however, is the literary explanation. And it tells me that time is a force of it’s own. A force wielded by the most powerful of all, the storytellers. Storytellers are magical people with the awe inspiring power to mold and forge time into pieces of the past present and future. They create strings of time, huge blocks and vicious circles and never ending ropes almost like molding a piece of hot candy and from these forms emerge Tales. The tales so powerful in their influence and their imagination that they transport us to world beyond our physical reach.

To me time is a portal, accessed by keys that only storytellers have. Storytellers with magic in their gestures and honey on their tongues. The first stories that I think of are always the tales told to me by my Grandpa and Grandma. They were, are and will continue to be the best storytellers I have ever encountered. The ultimate spreaders of wisdom and folklore, grandparents weave every story with life lessons and adventures, with knowledge and strife. They lit the fire within me to express my thoughts in words so magnificent and powerful that the world we live in would consider me a Doctor Strange capable of travelling a billion more.

These stories first enraptured me in my childhood and they haven’t loosened their grip since. After my grandparents, the only source able to quench this constant need for more adventures were books. Glorious novels by authors I knew only in name yet their emotions caught me in a web. Each genre a different rollercoaster, sometimes the twists and turns of a shocking mystery, sometimes the rainbows and unicorns of a fantasy and other times the flowers and candles of a sweet romance. Philosophy never entrapped me in the same way, perhaps because logic interfered with feeling? But fiction had me in its clutches. I only spun down the rabbit hole from there; from innocent romances to dark tales. I explored it all.

Till date stories hold me like nothing else. I never knew what I would become, but a storyteller is someone I always wanted to be. I always wanted my life journey to answer the questions I want to ask the authors of the books I read. Did they do all the things they wrote about? Are their stories the experiences they long for but couldn’t have? Do they have the end of the mystery panned out in their head or do they go with the flow? Do they enjoy reading stories of others even after creating their own? Most importantly, did this fire to create, to devour ever burn out?

I have a feeling it won’t. I have a feeling it might burn low but some inspiration will always breathe life into it. Perhaps time would be empty without the hands that shape it for us? Perhaps the past wouldn’t hold its worth without the historians recounting it and perhaps the mythical gods and goddesses would die out without their influence and faith pressed into print? Perhaps storytellers will always be needed. Till time exists, maybe it will employ them too?

For my dislike for philosophy, I sure got very philosophical here. Never a matter, though. My story is just a few blogs in. Stay with me for more.

Love, Ri.

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