Image via She Wolf
I wonder sometimes, if we each had to write the story of our lives, what type of story it would be? Would it be happy? Would it be sad? Would it be a memorable story? Or would it simply fade away, like graffiti on a wall?
Our life is the sum of our experiences, of the places we’ve seen and the people we’ve known. Of decisions that have shaped us. Of our triumphs and our regrets. It’s made up of layers, some of which have peeled away, leaving us vulnerable and exposed. That’s our story. That curious mixture of the mundane, the tragic, the comic and, occasionally, the sublime. We share it with loved ones but we are the only ones who will ever know every intimate secret, every dream, every sigh.
And who would want to read my story? What’s so interesting about my life? I’ve lived on this island almost all of my life. I’ve been bewitched by a stretch of water that’s as ancient as the earth itself. I’ve felt the breath of Africa scorching my skin and been buffeted by a thousand different winds. But I do have a story to tell, and I wonder, if I listened to the whispers of my heart, whether I could give a voice to that child within me that never dared dreamed big.
Because notwithstanding everything, there is a uniqueness to it, as there is a uniqueness to your story; and to yours; and to yours too. We are all different. We are all heroes. We are all stories in the end.
Location: Strait Street, Valletta