We're All Walking Stories

Somewhere, in a cozy middle class home in Hamburg, Germany there’s a mantel with a framed photograph. A couple beams, the man’s arms wrapped tightly around his wife as some famous landmark towers behind them.

The atmosphere seems festive, there’s a balloon that looks to have escaped the grasp of a young boy, a hot dog vendor bellows in the background, and just off in the distance there’s a person sitting pensively on a bench.

Wait, it’s YOU.

Have you ever wondered how many photos around the world you’re in the backdrop of?

The nightstands, desks, and pianos you grace as a supporting character in the memories of complete strangers?

The number of events happening in real time you’ll never know about? The people and the STORIES you’ll never hear told?

How somewhere in Chitwan, Nepal a family celebrates their daughter’s first birthday.

In a cramped Chicago cubicle, a man finally decides to quit his soul-sucking job to travel the world.

Peering through a fence, wondering what the future has in store, is a girl in a Syrian refugee camp.

Two floors below your apartment a single mother gets word her son has overdosed on heroin, while just across the street another mother learns her daughter will be the first in their family to go to college.

In Lahaina, Maui a woman in her 50s cruises downtown on her bicycle to catch the sunset. A man scribbling notes nearby will never know it makes her feel closer to the daughter who will no longer speak to her.

Behind the wheel of Chevrolet Suburban is a young woman fearlessly navigating through the streets of Riyadh even though she knows it’s illegal for women to drive. She doesn’t care. To her unjust laws aren’t laws at all.

On Broadway, the house lights are dimmed because a beloved actor of the stage has died.

InBelgrade, a teenage boy walks along the Danube River as he considers taking his own life.

Somewhere 35,000 feet over the Atlantic, a couple well into their 80s takes their first plane ride.

In Mombasa, a man is shaken down by a corrupt police officer for the third time this month.

Huddled over a kitchen table in a conservative midwestern town, a 19-year man comes out to his parents.

In Tel Aviv, a middle-aged man ambles down Rothschild Boulevard, desperately trying to figure out how to save his marriage.

At a dive bar in Ontario, it takes 5 beers for a man to muster up the courage to ask his friend to be the best man in his wedding.

For the first time in her life, a girl from a troubled home lifts her eyes from the ground because a teacher tells her she’s talented.

In Tupelo, Mississippi a man in his late 60s learns to read.

A teenage boy in Puerto Varas, Chile takes his first sip of beer and hates it. He wonders what all the fuss is about.

A woman in her 50s votes for the first time, finally convinced her community’s future must be different.

Events are happening in real time all over the world, weaving together the stories that comprise our humanity. Every moment of every day there is genuine joy, despair, triumph, tragedy, community, loneliness, injustice, and mystery constantly unfolding.

Each of us is a profoundly interesting and important story worth telling.

We should treat one another accordingly.

This is what you do when she leaves you

“Idon’t want this anymore,” she says.

“You can’t mean that,” you tell her.

“But I do,” she insists.

There’s a conviction in her voice, the likes of which you’ve never heard but always sensed dwelled deep within; the kind of light one stifles out of fear of losing someone.

But now the fear is gone.

My, how the tables have turned.

You almost marvel at the transformation, admire it even, before remembering you want her to stay.

“But I love you,” is all you can think to say as you drop to your knees.

“I love you too,” she says. “But it’s not enough anymore.”

You wonder how such a thing is possible as she grabs her bag and walks out the door.

Now you’re alone.

You don’t know what to do with yourself.

Inexplicably, you grab a kitchen knife. You have no idea why, but it somehow brings relief as you pace up and down your shabby hardwood floors.

You pull out your smartphone and glance at your touchscreen. You start to scroll through names from past lives.

“No.”

“No way.”

“He wouldn’t understand.”

“Definitely not.”

Your breakup suddenly becomes an illumination of who your real friends are.

But you dial a few people anyway and get voicemail after voicemail, wondering out loud if they know what’s just happened.

Maybe they’re ignoring me, you think.

It’s a work night after all and what you have to say will take time, ages in fact.

“Fuck it,” you say. “Who needs em.”

You grab your coat and stomp out of your apartment.

Your first aimless stroll leads to one the next night, then the next, until you’re taking walks every evening, rain, sleet, or snow. On some nights you look like a madman.

You don’t care.

You playback the breakup in your head over and over again, peppering in footage of all your firsts.

The first time your hands met

The first time you kissed

The first, “I love yous.”

The first time you made love

The first time you talked about the possibility of being each other’s last

It’s all too much.

---

Now, you start to agonize over all the things you could have done differently.

How you could have learned her friends’ names.

How you shouldn’t have dragged her to all those crappy sports bars.

How you should have called instead of texted.

How you should have taken Valentine’s Day more seriously.

How you could have lied in bed longer when she begged you not to leave.

How you could have told her more often how pretty she looked, talented she was, and how much you admired her.

You regret not admitting how much your love for her actually scared you and realize that very vulnerability might have saved your relationship.

Girls love that stuff, you think.

But it’s too late.

---

Then something shifts.

You feel a tempest brewing within.

You start to curse her name.

You try and convince yourself you’re better off without her, or anyone, or love at all.

You regret the day you met her.

You stop using the bag she bought you for your birthday.

You delete her number from your phone even though you know good and well you’ll know it until the day you die. This offers you a fleeting moment of solace. What if? you think before stopping yourself.

Back to work.

You bury photos of her, but for some reason won’t ruin them.

Something, even in your unsound state, tells you that would be irrational.

You start to binge on late 90s sitcoms.

You dread how every corny love song suddenly seems as profound as some sacred ancient scroll.

You can’t even look at another girl.

You fall deeper and deeper into some abyss, certain you’re the only person in the world whose ever experienced such heartache.

Things are bad.

You can’t remember the last time you felt such despair.

Then one morning, after what feels like thousands, your heart aches just a little bit less.

At first, the contrast is almost undetectable. But it’s there. You’re sure of it.

It has to be.

You continue to take your long strolls but for the first time in ages you lift your gaze from the pavement.

You start to eat better.

Sleep better.

Think better.

You decide to quit drinking completely.

You get a gym membership.

And gradually, you begin to show some semblance of who you once were.

Only better.

---

Then, something you didn’t think was possible happens.

You start to connect with people again. Real ones.

You even push yourself to date again.

You hang out with mutual friends of your ex and hear her name in passing. But it’s okay. It stings, but no longer destroys you.

You feel your temperament gradually shift to one of enlightenment, spirituality, of wanting to know more about the world and the role you may play in it.

You send her well wishes.

You even pray for her. What?! You never pray!

Then one day it ALL hits you.

Letting her go is the only thing that will make you whole again.

You silently thank her for ushering in that consciousness.

You realize how falling in love once is still once more than most of the world.

You feel lucky.

You ARE lucky.

You’re suddenly grateful this remarkable woman came into your life, however briefly.

You hope that she’s happy. It’s a sentiment you once found hokey but for the first time feel it in your bones.

You truly, genuinely, sincerely, unequivocally, absolutely want her to be happy.

You want it more for her than you do for yourself.

Maybe that’s what love really is, you think.

You love her. Always will.

And your togetherness, or lack there of, has no bearing on that truth.

Finally, you discover there’s no such thing as the right girl at the wrong time.It’s all nonsense, you think. It all happened the way it needed to.

Why?

Because this woman, this exceptional Being, helped you evolve into the man you couldn’t be for her.

That’s something, you think.

This is what you do when she leaves you.

---

Lost Loves and Old Movie Houses

He loved to walk around the city. Each time he rounded a corner or stumbled on a new landmark, Kafea would take it all in as if he’d just been dropped off from La Guardia.

Five years earlier, Kafea had abruptly swapped his surfboard for a pen. The day he told his folks he wanted to be a writer, the waves on Haleiwa Beach were massive, making them wonder if he’d just hit his head.

“Why do you need to go all the way to New York to write?” they asked.

“It’s what you do,” was all he could think to say.

One of his favorite places was a movie house called, Grover Square Cinemas on Broadway. He took pride in seeing films where things didn’t need to blow up, or one car needed to chase another. Of course, he didn’t particularly mind when it happened but preferred what he considered “movies with culture.”

The theater itself had been around since the 70s. Envisioning what the art house cinema looked like back then required absolutely no imagination. It was as it had always been, which was exactly why Kafea and many others found it so endearing.

One evening as he was waiting for his movie to start, he struck up a conversation with an elderly man who claimed to be 90 years old.

“Have you seen this movie?” he asked, pointing to the film’s poster.

“I’m going to see it today,” Kafea told him.

“I’ve seen it four times,” he beamed. “It’s beautiful. If not for movies I’d have no reason to live.”

Despite being nearly 70 years the man’s junior, Kafea found his proclamation less tragic than relatable. He’d lost count of the number of times he too had sat in the back row of that theater alone in every conceivable way.

It was stories that had breathed life back into a spirit that was again and again on the verge of flatlining.

There was a beautiful girl about Kafea’s age who worked in the ticket booth. She always smiled when she saw him, which was something Kafea knew she didn’t do to everyone.

Invariably, they’d talk about the movies playing and maybe the weather. The exchanges were brief and sometime abruptly cut short by an impatient patron or hovering manager.

But regardless of the breadth or prose of their exchange, Kafea always ended by saying, “It was nice seeing you.”

He usually sat in a haze during the first 10 minutes of the coming attractions. All he could think about was the girl. From the trivial to the poetic he wanted to know all about her.

Where was her accent from?

How tall was she?

Did she even like movies?

What were her dreams?

Was she happy?

Kafea never asked her name, if she cared to grab a coffee, or even a movie for that matter. Strangely, it wasn’t from a lack of courage but the fear of ruining the fantasy of two people who liked each other despite not knowing a thing about one another.

Maybe that was the reason, Kafea thought.

Either way, it was a possibility Kafea was far too delicate to disprove.

As the years went on, Kafea returned again and again to Grover Square until one day neither the theater or the girl were there anymore. The building’s owner had apparently decided not to renew the space.

Kafea stood in a daze staring blankly at an empty marquee. The place looked as though it had been deserted altogether. Several other moviegoers walked up reading a handwritten sign placed where the film’s posters were normally housed.

It read, It is with a very heavy heart we announce Grover Square Cinemas will no longer be in business. We want to thank everyone for their patronage and support over the years, and especially now as we go through this very difficult time.”

Almost on cue, Kafea saw the same old man who he’d spoken to years before standing in a trance near the old entrance. He marveled not at the fact the two had stumbled on the news the same day, but that the man was still alive.

The gentlemen’s head was down and his shoulders were slumped. Kafea watched him carefully, knowing the theater’s demise would soon lead to his.

When the old man slowly shuffled off, Kafea looked back up at the blank marquee envisioning the showtimes for the movie he’d planned on seeing. He thought briefly what other theaters might be screening the film before abandoning the idea.

Now, he stood alone peering through the empty ticket booth window.

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Old Habits Die Hard

Last night I stayed in a beautiful brownstone in the heart of Harlem. The building had clearly received a great deal of love over the years, which was perhaps the sole purpose of renting it out through AirBnb. 

For as long as I’ve lived in New York I have only been in a handful of them. I highly recommend the experience. 

My friend Nick who booked the space for our friend's wedding told me the apartment was 120 years old. Instantly, I began to romanticize about all the things the building had both seen and heard.

I don’t care who you are, or where you’re from, if you live for that long you’re going to have a story or two. 

I’m amazed how quickly one resumes the “New York State of Mind,” when back in the city. It took months, but when I left Los Angeles I was finally at a place where my gait had slowed and my patience no longer waned.

All of that training has been eradicated in my 5 days back. 

So goes...

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If you enjoyed this article, sign up for my bi-monthly newsletter with my favorite book, film, and travel recommendations in addition to my latest articles on productivity and inspiration.

Plus, I’d love to share my free Creativity Day Planner — a simple two -page template on building good daily habits.