Feather
The old man had no memory, he had lived a life so full, he had many loves so deep, but somewhere in his sagas of suffering and triumph, the worlds merged together, and the happiness and sorrow became one "Once I was a story teller, they came from my own life, there's a story about the boy who ran too much, about the girl who danced like a swan, the lovers who lived in a dream, and once they woke up, they didn't recognize the other, about the couple who died for their country, the artist who went mad, the child who smiled all the time, the old man who forgot who he was..." These stories were his, but he didn't remember any more than his words, maybe his words became his stories, coming to life as soon as they were released, torrential rain into a parched existence Maybe his stories became his words, fantastical incantations, tightly wound up like time. I don't know what's real anymore, maybe it all is, what we live and what we dream, what we know and what w