We all have stories; we store them inside ourselves, letting them out when it feels safe or important, but no matter what we do with them we know they're there.  Our stories are our experiences, in more respects than we're comfortable with, and our experiences become so much of us, for better, or worse. 

My grandmother's hands wouldn't be so wrinkled if she had not spent so much time facing them to the sun, drowning them in dishwater, tangibly working through life, but it's in those wrinkles, in that time of joy, and purpose, and strain that life was experienced, that a story unfolded.  Our stories are like this.

They are extended rhythms that have both pleasant and ugly melodies, but they make something beautiful when pieced together.  Sometimes our stories pound in our hearts so heavily we can hardly breathe, other times they quietly rest within, but sooner or later we all want to be heard.  It's antihuman not to be; such a cold and desolate experience is against life's very nature.  So we tell our stories the best way we can, sometimes softening the edges, or sharpening corners, depending on who and how we want to paint our lives.  And sometimes we find someone we trust, a friend that meets us in our deepest parts, and in that connection we really let them in, sometimes cautiously, sometimes vibrantly, all the while hoping they will like it.