Montréal Chronicles 6.- Those stories and their owners
Never in such a short time, since I am living in this city, have I had the opportunity to meet these many people who wanted to share their stories with me. Some of them were told in a noisy bar, others at the bus stop, or even in the middle of an English class. It made me suddenly realize that every day of my life in Québec city had been awfully lonely, but also full of my own stories, in a desperate – and surviving- attempt of auto contemplation. They were solitary experiences except for a few dear friends that I was able to meet when they had the time to do so. Being alone was sometimes baffling, it was like observing myself naked in the mirror the whole time. It was a constant, weird act where I was building different versions of myself to talk with. In other words: I was getting crazy.
But here, people’s voices are everywhere. My shell is opening again and I left my cocoon to observe and listen to everything and everybody. Mostly the latter because everyone wants to tell you something, anyhow.
However, I still feel as the invader who claims to tell you those stories. It breaks my heart because I don’t feel ready! I don’t want to talk about my story either, even if some people believe I already have something to say. I want to introduce you those people I meet, but I consider sharing those things will make me a traitor and I just feel I must mute my attempt. I just can show some few lights about it: The frustrating loneliness of a father who left everything behind just to give a better life to his children. Also the story about this other guy who remembers his best family holidays in a place that he will never call his home country again; or this other guy who believes that his best summertime was in the rice fields where he worked, located in a remote place that he knows he won’t go back to. I do not even dare to write the story about those people who had to run away from their hometown in the middle of the night to save themselves from deadly religious persecution. So many talks, so many tales, so many different life experiences, all of them remembered as precious souvenirs from another life, almost from another planet. Far from the cold but safe Canada.
That is why their stories are still on they own. I figure someday I’ll be able to write them, to create that beautiful filigree that real writers do, which I poorly imitate. I have faith that the future will let me show those stories to you.