Stories walk around in our name

Stories and history are part of the Land of the Dead, but they are, themselves, alive. The accounts of who and where we were and are no longer are more than memorials to dead selves—they take on their own lives, growing into tall tales and embellished truths, rumors, legends and myths. Stories walk around in our name, a more polished reflection than the one a mirror holds. It is a mistake to believe the past can be contained by sealing it in a sepulcher of ignorance or indifference, perhaps laying flowers before it on holidays until the dirt heals over and the present demands more attention. Watching Black Orpheus made me realize that the only thing I still believe in but love is the power of a story to reach out and possess a man or a woman almost for no reason, and become the life that lives them. Stories and love, which is just another story