Let me tell you...
Some of us were so great our laurels now do the speaking for us. No need to pursue. No need to ensue. Relax. Take it easy.
Roll with the embroidery.
Oh yea. Let me tell ya 'bout the good ol' days, the golden years, my time, my stories ad nauseum repetitions. Gather 'round now children, the patriarch has a story to tell, he doesn't do much of anything anymore but has stories aplenty, stories of the good old days.
Is there a youthful urge to create new stories, fresh material and an older adult urge to recant the glory days of old, the one important decade of their slowly fading darkening memory? Scars may be the ultimate stories written on our bodies but they too rot away when we die. Tell your stories over and over because after your body is dust and bones stories alone remain, if you are lucky.
Back when I was a kid…
The first time I was on my own I…um,
Mutinous rebels were we. . . Let me tell you...
As our legends unfold from our silvery tongues polished up perhaps refined over the years and made more presentable.
What gelatinous threads that we hang from!
The problem of stagnant stories prematurely purveyed as the highlight of dull lives is the underlying urge to get better more interesting material, fresh dirt. What dirty depths of disgusting behavior will you go to in order to have the best stories, something presentable to garner the ephemeral conversational spotlight? When all your stories stripped away would you still be interesting? If you were an amnesiac would anyone find you worth listening to? Personalities are more than stories, bodies are more than portfolios of scar tissue. Context is huge but it isn't everything.
Tell me...
Tell me who?
Just tell me tell me quick so I can tell you my story. Your story is okay but my story is really great.
