on a plane back home,
i overhear two flight attendants –
one translating
how the cleaning crew got scolded for a shoddy job
to the other who doesn’t understand the language.
“they might lose their jobs,” she says,
adding flourishes the original words never knew.
the actual conversation?
“please do a better job next time.”
it gets me thinking —
how much of storytelling is just that:
exaggeration?
maybe the black cat
wasn’t a bad omen,
just running from something scarier
to both it and us.
maybe curd was the only affordable food
that calmed nerves before something important.
maybe sneezing before leaving
wasn’t unlucky,
just bad hygiene wrapped in warning.
exaggeration could just have been survival all along.
but beyond that
do we stretch the truth
because reality is too boring
or because stories
are where we get to be
who we wish we were?
in them,
we’re the hero who quit the job that was killing him,
the friend who carried everyone home from the party,
the lover who was left behind despite doing his best.
do you ever wonder if you told a story that wasn’t
for it saved you from who you were?
perhaps you didn’t walk away before it fell apart –
perhaps you did right in the middle of the mess.
do you ever wonder if you are who you are,
or just the most comforting story you tell yourself?