In my previous life I was a story teller.
Dragging myself from village to village, where people would throw me some coins to weave fantasy around their mundane lives.
At my will I would make them laugh and cry.
Children rolled over and laughed as my characters faced the most absurd plots I could weave.
Except her, who would neither laugh nor shed a tear, as she stood there staring at me.
Would you like to hear a story? I asked her.
“Not unless it is the story of all stories” She said.
And wherever I went she would be there watching and listening, challenging “Can you tell me the story of all stories?”
How could there be one story that defined all stories?
And if there were what value would I have? If there would be just one story to tell?
“You are of no value to me” she said, “unless you can tell me the story of all stories”
And she walked away challenging. Never looking back amused.
Silly woman, how could I make a living if I told the same story again and again?
And then I died.
Never being able to tell another story.
Have you ever died of thirst in presence of a glass of water that you cannot see?
And into this life she came back again.
She took my hand and showed me the ocean and asked me to see and observe.
For the stories of all stories was there, a story that had no end and had no beginning.
Each rising swell a new plot that arose from the ocean and then merged back instantly, endlessly, unpredictably, inexorably.
Millions arising and immediately going back to the source.
The source, the source of all stories.