Once upon a time…
If I were Scheherazade and you, dear reader, were the great king Shahryār from whom I buy my life every day at dawn with every cliffhanger I spin, this would be my last story but one. I would tell my thousandth story today and tomorrow will make it a thousand and one nights and we will be done. We all know how the fable ends.
But I am not Scheherazade — I cannot claim to be as resourceful or riveting a teller of tales — and you, dear reader, do not possess such murderous tendencies as some royals are wont to have. How fortunate for us both. I have told nine hundred, ninety-nine stories already, however, and once this thousandth tale is done, I may well be done too. We shall see.
I could tell you about how I have come to tell these tales in the first place. I could tell you about a young engineering student who found himself in Munich for his studies over a decade ago, and found himself needing a way to share his adventures with those he left behind back home. The Internet was a new thing back then, almost, and he discovered this wonderful thing called a blog — a web log, as it were — and soon his new friends (these odd Americans and Italians and Greeks and Germans) started following their own adventures in this young man’s blog too. It was a record of a most singular place in time (or a most singular time in that place, perhaps), of being young and foolhardy, of hot, green summers and melancholic autumns, of backpacking all over Europe on a shoestring and the sort of hardy faith that, yes, young people have.
I could tell you about how families could be found and made anywhere — in a yoga class in a soulless franchise gym; in a gathering of foodies and food lovers who take pictures of everything they eat and then write about it too; in a tiny café driven by a passion for good coffee rather than profits, and in the company of other regular customers who slowly resemble the cast of ‘Cheers’ — that is, if one opened one’s heart to the opportunity.
I could tell you how some trips to places new and old aren’t mere holidays but journeys into the landscape of your own soul, trite as this sounds — but you are smiling now in recognition; you know this too. I could tell you how some friends come into our lives, brighten it for a moment, then leave us and this is okay, this is a moment of gold that does not have to go on forever; we give thanks that it even happened in the first place. I could tell you about other friends, the few who stay and stay on through good and bad, and they are more precious than gold. They we hold on to and never let go.
I could tell you of Love, that four-letter word, but I don’t have to. You know. You love and have love, and if you don’t believe this, you may not be looking hard enough. We are all loved. We can all love. We really ought to.
I could tell you about a certain someone who loves his peanut butter and his foie gras and his Louis Vuitton and his Prada, but you’re sick of that story already, I know, so I shall spare you.
I could tell you all of these stories but then, I realise, I already have. Almost a thousand stories, after all; one can’t help repeating oneself.
So instead, for the nine hundred and ninety-ninth plus one, I will tell you this story instead:
There once was a boy. He wasn't a very good boy, though he did try. He travelled all over the world, ate many different things, loved many different people, and when he got home he discovered he was no longer a boy. He was a man now. Unfortunately, he wasn't a very good man, though he must have tried. One day he stopped trying to be good and to his surprise he found that he was happy. He was content. This, he decided, was better than being good. Excited about and exhilarated by his discovery, he decided he ought to share this with others and so, he did. The End.
The end? Well, maybe.
Your guess is as good as mine, but tomorrow is another day. I’ve a feeling dawn will bring another story with it. Scheherazade had a good thing going; let’s see if we can take this further.
Once upon a time…