To young Mark. Always with one hand ocuppied. Children of twenty eight try to tell me what is a good cigar and what isn’t. Me, who never learned to smoke, but always smoked; me, who came into the world asking for a light. Me, who when asked by a waitress about the kind of beer I would prefer, sweet, sour, toasted or fruity, always respond: cold. Me, who began going out when I was seven. Me, that have lived four hundred and fifty six weekends without throwing up once. Me, who stole my parent’s condoms right before my only brother was conceived. Me, who came from the uterus dancing and when the nurses left the room, lighted a ciggy.
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You think reading stories is not worth the hassle, but we’re made of them. The pictures you hold in your gloomy head that compose the narrative of your life and give it sense are a story. That ethereal memory, at the back of your eyes, of holding onto her at a day’s end it’s fiercely recalled now as a story. How your parents met. How you came to be. How those before those before were, is told as a story. The plain anecdote. The stinging complaint. The trivial recount with which you explain yourself to your friends: all things experienced owe their hold of the soul to storytelling.
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