Everyone has a story to tell
Ever listen to someone tell the reality of their lives? Ever just sit there and say wow, how did you make it through? Ever just want to applaud them for getting where they are standing?
Everyone has a story to tell.
Ever just listen to someone tell the reality of who they are now? Ever just want to stand up and hug them tight? Ever just want to be their voice too? Or how about say, yeah I have been somewhere similar?
Sometimes you just want to hold your breath in the fact that you have been in their shoes and you endured more than they have. What about just listening and realizing that they TRULY did survive this situation, this despair in life? Ever really say that their story was surreal?
Everyone has a story to tell.
Even you can sit there, listening. Wanting so badly to tell them how you have made it thus far. Yet some part of you is hidden. So hard for you to unwind the tornado to just a slight breeze, so they can find a piece to grasp. Ever just want to explode your life to someone? To stand before them and say I am here because I survived?
Ever just want someone to hear? To really believe that you did outlive the surreal event? Ever just want them to reach out and hug you?
Everyone has a story to tell.
And you do. I do. She does. He did. And now so much is lost because someone just couldn't open up their heart, much less their mind to the reality of a surreal survivor story. Would it have been so hard to really grasp that straw in the middle of the storm?
And now the mind of yours races as you realize they are standing stronger than before. That without you their live is so much better.
I can say, not many hear my story for a reason. So much of my life was surreal. So much of my life was almost impossible to believe, yet one did hear me.
Sorry it wasn't possible for some to realize that my life was so hidden behind glass, layered by stones. So much of me is far from sheltered. SO far beyond the idea or even dream that my life was nothing but roses. Yet I cannot hide that I survived every part of it.
Grit. The depth of what that means in my family.
Everyone has a story to tell.
My life was nothing compared to yours. Nor hers. Nor hers. Nor his. And I never compared myself to anyone. I only admitted I couldn't understand how people wallowed in self pity and made themselves a permanent victim. Because in my life THAT was never an option. Its live or die. Nothing gray in it.
Yet knowing everyone has a story to tell, I let people tell me theirs. Thinking it was real. Believing them.
Only to find out people say things for pity, to be a victim. I don't understand that. WHY?
Yet you listened to their sob story and found their lives to be real, but mine, surreal. How?
Yet that doesn't matter now. I withdrew from the fact some people can't just listen. They have to judge. They have to really create this image of lies to listen to over and over until they believe it.
Sadness.
The story was sold to the masses, who to believe now.
Mine, still mine. Hidden. No longer dissected for the judges. I have to keep my truth to myself. Which is fine.
Because someone, somewhere will want to hear it. The truth will ring inside their heart, their mind. They will applaud my survival and be grateful I opened up to them. Then carry forward.
See everyone has a story to tell of their lives.
Some so surreal it belongs on a tv show. Some not so much. Some in between. No judges. No labeling.
Nothing fake either. Truth rings in the air. Yet who is listening to your story, eh?
Everyone has a story to tell.
Ever just listen to someone tell the reality of who they are now? Ever just want to stand up and hug them tight? Ever just want to be their voice too? Or how about say, yeah I have been somewhere similar?
Sometimes you just want to hold your breath in the fact that you have been in their shoes and you endured more than they have. What about just listening and realizing that they TRULY did survive this situation, this despair in life? Ever really say that their story was surreal?
Everyone has a story to tell.
Even you can sit there, listening. Wanting so badly to tell them how you have made it thus far. Yet some part of you is hidden. So hard for you to unwind the tornado to just a slight breeze, so they can find a piece to grasp. Ever just want to explode your life to someone? To stand before them and say I am here because I survived?
Ever just want someone to hear? To really believe that you did outlive the surreal event? Ever just want them to reach out and hug you?
Everyone has a story to tell.
And you do. I do. She does. He did. And now so much is lost because someone just couldn't open up their heart, much less their mind to the reality of a surreal survivor story. Would it have been so hard to really grasp that straw in the middle of the storm?
And now the mind of yours races as you realize they are standing stronger than before. That without you their live is so much better.
I can say, not many hear my story for a reason. So much of my life was surreal. So much of my life was almost impossible to believe, yet one did hear me.
Sorry it wasn't possible for some to realize that my life was so hidden behind glass, layered by stones. So much of me is far from sheltered. SO far beyond the idea or even dream that my life was nothing but roses. Yet I cannot hide that I survived every part of it.
Grit. The depth of what that means in my family.
Everyone has a story to tell.
My life was nothing compared to yours. Nor hers. Nor hers. Nor his. And I never compared myself to anyone. I only admitted I couldn't understand how people wallowed in self pity and made themselves a permanent victim. Because in my life THAT was never an option. Its live or die. Nothing gray in it.
Yet knowing everyone has a story to tell, I let people tell me theirs. Thinking it was real. Believing them.
Only to find out people say things for pity, to be a victim. I don't understand that. WHY?
Yet you listened to their sob story and found their lives to be real, but mine, surreal. How?
Yet that doesn't matter now. I withdrew from the fact some people can't just listen. They have to judge. They have to really create this image of lies to listen to over and over until they believe it.
Sadness.
The story was sold to the masses, who to believe now.
Mine, still mine. Hidden. No longer dissected for the judges. I have to keep my truth to myself. Which is fine.
Because someone, somewhere will want to hear it. The truth will ring inside their heart, their mind. They will applaud my survival and be grateful I opened up to them. Then carry forward.
See everyone has a story to tell of their lives.
Some so surreal it belongs on a tv show. Some not so much. Some in between. No judges. No labeling.
Nothing fake either. Truth rings in the air. Yet who is listening to your story, eh?
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