Falling in love with stories is a magical feeling. Thinking back a part of me is feeling guilty for not making the time to read all the literature stories Ι could have. Recently a beautifully written funny story came back from my memories. It’s written by Dimitris Psathas, called “The big purse and the little purse”. If you ever have the chance to read it, go ahead! It certainly brings funny, exciting memories in my mind.
Ι wish I had invested more time to read the rest of the stories of Greek literature. Beautiful stories have been written, amazing stories have been told, awesome stories have been read. Yet, there are the others, the unsaid, the unwritten, the unread ones. What happens to them? Is there like place where they go to rest? Is there a place such as a “Story Retirement Home” or a “Story Necropolis”? Or maybe they are taken captive by a Story Dragon that either burns them or keeps them safe in some kind of treasure in his cave. Or do they just go about existing in the infinite space of time until they finally become discovered by a Muse, who in her turn gives it as a present to an artist of any sort, who then translates it with senses that a humble human creature might understand-or not.
It is crazy to try to conceive how many stories already exist in any form that we can interpret. Can it also be that the same story has been interpreted a million times in a million different ways? The unknown number of the stories yet that haven’t been said, written or read must certainly be vast, infinite. One may argue that for a story not to be said, written or read, it means that it’s not enough, not really worthy. On the other hand, how can that be true? How unfair is that? “Wake up, Sabrina! Life is unfair!”. Now that might be a story, never said, written or read. It might be a story in process. Or just a simple crazy tangle of my mind or maybe my Cypriot Muse comes and goes giving me mixed or broken signals.