Of stories that walk. And breathe.

We are all but walking stories. Some dramatic. Others not so much. Some happy. Others a wee bit sad. Everyone of us is a writer of stories, albeit only some may be passionate raconteurs. We are the protagonist in most of the stories we write. And in thousands of instances, a mere character in somebody else's. 

Our life's central discourse is largely shaped by our interpretations, our interactions and our interpretations of the interactions with 'reality' - and not by 'reality' itself (if there is such a thing). What we are today is a sum of the stories we wrote on the way, the stories we chose to tell and, in no mean manner, the stories we let fade into oblivion.

Stories are both a function of time and place. One place becomes the stage for many stories at different points in time. And of course, at the same time, innumerable stories are taking shape in a variety of places. I often feel that the three elements of stories - time, place and the characters end up being like the Horcruxes in the Harry Potter series.

Alright, let's not call them horcruxes. However, these story capsules are everywhere - an artist's masterpiece, a dying mother's baby, a monument touched by various travelers, or in a loved one's gift. A story that others read and re-read while the writer is writing more, and even after the final chapter of his story is long done.

While we may be unwittingly embedding our stories in everything we touch, our own mind does a less than pleasing job with remembering them. The perception of 'how was Friday night?' could take a number of forms over the course of the next week. And the wry smile you received from that female at the bar counter could gradually transform into a coquettish grin, if you wish to remember it that way. Our memories always remain shrouded in a blanket of our social milieu, our secret desires and fears as well. 

As we move ahead in life, the stories that we create on the way remain a part of us. We can allow them to be the fetters that hold us back or let them be the wings that help us soar. Yet, it is imperative that we must write. And write relentlessly.

For your deeds may raise you to Heaven, or banish you to the gates of Hell. But make sure, as you stand there, you have a great story to tell.