I’ve never been much of a storyteller. Sometimes I wonder whether it’s because I’ve never had any tales to tell or simply that I don’t have the gift of gab, or whatever it takes.
Seems that the ones who can weave tales are the people—usually men—who can find a moral , a lesson or some kind of point in something—usually in their childhood—that happened to them. They somehow get the idea that it’s going to matter to someone else, somewhere in the world.
Truth of the matter is that people are born, people suffer and people die and other people forget, or never notice. Women—most, anyway—bring the beings—or the lives, I’m not sure—into this world to begin all those endless, repetitive fantasies, all those experiences that tumble, like pebbles from cliffs, into chasms of forgetfulness that close in all around them.
Men look for rhyme or reason, as if the universe is some kind of orderly machine or a chant that marches in time. People, at least on this block do the same things again and again.
Memories And Those Who Stayed 