The world is made up of and by stories. I think, that all we are are stories.
Some are happy, some sad. Some are irrational (like trying to carry on with a phone conversation while being ridiculously drunk), and some are well thought out plans. Some we tell, and some we don't.
There is a story that I haven't told you. I want(ed) to, but then there is the matter of whether I could, or I should. You see, I'm still quite confused.
Partly I believe that it doesn't really matter, because the detail I'm leaving out is actually such a tiny bit. Just think of it as a prologue. You already know the stories. They started in the ungodly hours of the morning, over time and space and being strangers, and they drew us closer into becoming friends. They were stories in coffee shops, nearby watering holes, crowded hallways—and once, even on one of those terrifying MMDA foot bridges.
I don't need to tell anything more because the stories are complete by themselves. On most days I'm certain that's all there is to them. [But I probably will tell you, the next time you ask.]
I value stories most, because in the end we have nothing else, except the times we shared with people who mattered. The biggest favor you did for me (which I would like to thank you for) was to build stories with me. The best thing about them is that they will never be lost, unless we forget, perhaps. But you can be sure that I won't forget.
This is not the end though. The next best thing about stories is that they go on, despite time and distance (and the lack of prepaid credits for making international calls).
So take care of yourself. And any time you need someone to tell stories to, you'll know how to find me.
