[ WP ] A man sits on a bench in the middle of a park . Out of boredom , he imagines a back story for every person who crosses his path . He sees a couple jogging toward him in matching sweatsuits ...

Everyone has a story inside them. It ’ s human nature to be a storyteller. I am a collector of stories, but I ’ m also a narrator. Sometimes the stories give my own life meaning. 
 
 Here comes the man in the parka – 8:04 on the dot, just like always. Walking into battle at his desk job for another grueling shift. He takes long strides with a coffee in his hand. His eyes are always downcast as if he can ’ t believe that he ’ s still working the same job for the same pay. It ’ s Friday, but he ’ s past the point of getting excited for the weekend. 
 
 Ah, behind him is a more electric soul. Her head bobs from side to side as she dances along with her music – something funky and upbeat, undoubtedly. She works in a resale shop and makes just enough to scrape by. Her boyfriend is an artist, if you want to be liberal with that word. Their small apartment walls are lined with canvases and Polaroid pictures. 
 
 A couple of joggers come down the path. They are running at a pretty good pace with a dog by their side. Both are wearing these funny red tracksuits. They live in an apartment that overlooks the city, and buy their meat from Whole Foods. Both are impeccably fit as they glide past my bench. 
 
 As I follow them down the path I see a stranger site. A man is approaching with a large object under his arm. He ’ s moving to his new apartment that ’ s just across the park. His girlfriend recently broke his heart, so he needs to move his things back. My eyes follow him, but as he nears my bench I look towards the ground. I never make it too obvious when I imagine these stories. For a moment I take a glance at what ’ s under his arm. 
 
 What I see is almost too much to handle. I see a man framed, looking deeply into my eyes. Green eyes the color of damp moss. His face is painted with a smile that could convince most passersby, but his eyes reveal a different story. There is a sorrow that grows deep inside. My head is buzzing with stories, but few of them are ready to share. The man inside of the mirror will have to wait to have his story told another day. 

