What are we if not collections of memories? Our existences are stories upon stories upon stories tall, full of every story

What are we if not collections of memories? Our existences are stories upon stories upon stories tall, full of every story that houses us somewhere inside of it. Every story we’ve ever told, every story we’ve ever listened to, and every story we’ve ever become a distinct part of. There are stories in which I am a hero, and stories in which I am a villain. There are also stories in which I’m nothing more than a stranger. Just another shadow, another offbeat step on the sidewalk or another stray laugh riding the wind on the off chance I’m feeling good. I think the stranger stories are the best. Sometimes, it can be relaxing to barely mean anything to anyone, if I mean anything at all. Even so, I hope that when everything is all said and done, some part of me will be a story worth remembering.

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