Story time

Once upon a time a man and his thoughts began to wander deep deeper than he had ever dug before. This happened quite frequently and ironically was getting progressively worse as time went on. In this time we call life he thought to himself again we should do something. Clearly by this statement alone is where our story begins. A story that grapples between the minds of the many and outside the mind of a very small lucky few. Many of the minds chapters will be explored he thought, and again once upon a time he knew there would be no expectation. But more simply and furthermore far more coherent than any other story written. 1

In this time of repetitive rhythms and circles of life our story begins with the tiny droplet of what any author would be proud to describe as a droplet of truth. A droplet of narrative. A droplet of decisions that would be forlorn in the future. For generations to see how simple our story could actually be without a ripple of pain, or a splash of wasted eye drops in what you would normally read in a story. He thought about the story without any narrative then reminded his readers about the expectation he expected they would recieve. Then again in the land of our story all the folks in the locality had always felt inspired. After-all who would need inspiration in a land of creativity, if all it was doing was distracting the minds of the few in the middle of the many who had earned there characterisation in the kegs they shared, the t-shirts they wore and buttons that became sown upon the land of our story below the grey sky. Below the peppermint night at a time when most of all and most of many would sleep, and sleep and sleep and sleep like all good short stories should.2

At a time when the stories began to take shape and the lands geography eventually became explainable the writer reminded the reader how ostentatious and brave they had been to read such a new authors style of storytelling. At the same time a transmission took place, and that place was unmentioned within the text, yet everyone could visualize it because it was their favourite place. As all good stories should take place in. For the many this was no future, for others this had no room in the now and for the many that preferred it reminded them of the past when the story was so much more friendly. These same people hung onto the image of clothes stitched in times patchwork in a timed memory of clouds and pillows. For years they used to ponder into the skies offerings and smile at the illusive faces they formed. These faces came to the now and the lines on the face face reminded them of something they think about now. What is your thinking our hero asked.3

So many questions left unanswered, like every story that had ever consisted throughout time from of favourite authors we could relate with the simplicity of the message. Our story began with a human being thinking about how untended they felt when they walked away from the most beautiful experience anyone could dream to have. That is where our story began, our story began in the minds of the few outside the minds of the many. The story seemed to approach a new plateau. The words found on the little piece of sticky paper could have been a parchment. It could have been something left after the post industrial era. It could have been some futuristic alumnus colour stuck to the new wide screen, left upon the stage, like a pebble on the shore of the cleanest beach you could ever imagine. Our hero thought you won't find any dried bracken here, and you can pop your pods all you want but you won't find any oxygen outside of the air you breath, in the land of the few and the minds of the many. But he reminded somebody this is not about you, nor is it about me it's about us. That's why he reminded why this story is so important.4

As in the beginning as so it began our story began to unfold. The textiles of everything had patched up and changed so many brief mistakes that they all felt a similar texture. The warm smell of something nice flew around the pieces of paper these historical letters left themselves in. You could rip these pieces of paper into little pieces yet we'd still return them as audible. In-fact you could still spend the time thinking about the pretty image of our princess. You could squash this paper into a mushy ball and the sculpture would form a face which you would recognise. You would learn to love. This is where our stories began. This is why our stories should start beginning. This is why it's ok for this story to grow inside you as it grew in me. I give this to you, I give this without any expectation of growth. This story had no responsibility, it was not a story specifically about you or me or any fictional character. And the denial of the flower mean't nothing, after-all the leaf of the paper bear-ed no resemblance to a petal. It just gave of that scent, your favourite scent, for which we each could share if we shared the same standard of taste. But again this story has no standard it is merely a springboard into the world in which a mind can go. A place in which creativity can occur, and a place where creativity can be shared yet grow then decompose in a way that any story could reproduce. This story bared no resemble to any traditional ending. If-fact it's conclusions landed in the pockets of all that imagined how right it was to know when to hold onto something good. Something happy. Something very, very good. Something they could leave stars with. Something that would refocus on the real stars. A story about twinkly things. Things that caused nothing but happiness. The story was lovely it was, that's why here in this chapter it had to conclude. However it was up to you if it really had to finish. There was nothing that could distinguish this. It was all similar. we, the land the sky, the water and even the little pieces of paper all became one.