Our true stories are somehow like this trees reflected in the Paris' St. Martin Canal.
True trees, true memories. Somewhat blurred. Crafted. Rewritten to reflect even better how we feel, now, what happened, then.
A tree, this tree, tried to tell me my mother, when I was 12 perhaps, it all depends... I did not believe her! This chestnut tree in this park, is solid and old, and gives chestnuts - as every year. How can it be different?
The past changes, I read in a book ten years ago. It is not true! How can what happened in the past change? I told myself.
It all depends, what light falls on it, told Stendhall, long ago. It depends? Why?
Until I begun to craft stories. True stories, to tell.
Then I begun to understand.
Then I understood all.
Perhaps the past events can not be changed, but how we look at them, how we feel about them, makes a huge difference! And then, the chestnut tree becomes your childhood tree, either where you crashed as you drove first your bike not knowing yet how to stop, or the tree under which someone hold you dear.
Is it the same tree?
Is it the same park?
The memory plays with us, but we also play with it, while we tell true stories of our life. The light we colour it different, from each tale and each telling and audience. Sadder, more joyful or playfully.
Each story is connected to our life. And to the life of others too. My grand great mothers stories, my grandmothers diaries, my fathers tales live in me like I was there, myself.
