A letter to the art of telling stories: I honestly don’t know why, but every time that I am with you it feels like my existence on this round ball of dirt is justified. Sometimes, I feel that the stories I’m attempting to tell are trivial to what’s happening in the world, but in another way, that trivial story has so much gravity to me. Maybe it’s a selfish thing that I want to continue telling peoples’ stories for the feeling of fulfillment afterward, but I feel so strongly that each person around me has a story with a pulse, a shimmer, and a breath, awaiting to be acknowledged. It’s not even that I’m overtly trying to embellish and exaggerate your story, but rather that I find a peculiar charm to it. I hate not knowing how far you will take me, but for this season, I will attempt to savor all of you.