He told me afterwards that he could tell something good was coming. Because I paused for a moment and he could see the smile cross my face as the memory came back. And it was a good memory…

Because the best days and the best nights. And the worst days and the worst nights. Incomplete and untold stories. And some of you were probably there. And some of you probably weren’t.

Because this is an autobiographical blog. But it is not an autobiography. There are too many important people left out. Too many important stories left untold. And that’s how most of those stories will remain.

Because there are parts of your life that you keep close to your heart. The intimate notions of love and fate and regret and jealousy. And other notions as well. As new dreams replace the old. And the nightmares that you never had before are beginning to fade away.

Because there are parts of your life that you can’t even begin to capture. Drinking tea on some Saturday night in some coffee shop. And how it was the best night. Because it was uncomfortably warm. Because you were there with friends. Because it wasn’t the coffee shop that you normally go to. Hardly interesting details that you will remember. Though you can hardly remember what was spoke of.

And because there are parts of your life that you don’t understand. The girl with the compass tattoo on her arm. And how she became your muse when you didn’t realize that you needed one. Because she was beautiful in the ways that all muses should be. But there are more beautiful people in your life that have been there longer and in more important ways. But she made you value that notion of an instant. And so you found yourself writing about people that you barely know. And people that you aren’t sure that you want to know.

Witness: City of God, Pulp Fiction, The Iliad, Tortilla Flat and countless other stories. Stories told by friends. Stories including friends. Stories of people you’ll remember until the end of your days. And stories about stories.

Because Steinbeck said it best. “It ruined a story to have it all come out quickly. The good story lay in half-told things which must be filled in out of the hearer’s own experiences.”

And a reminder that these are pieces. Because sometimes even I forget. Because I like good stories too.

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