From a space of quiet reflection, I heard twilight whisper stories of valiant heroes with idealistic dreams, who endured great hardship and loss so that a grave injustice could be set right. I also heard stories of altruism gone awry, where nations of innocent people were slain in the name of purity and truth.
There were also long and detailed accounts of simple people living simple lives only to die a hard and complex death. There were also stories of people whose grand childhood dreams were reduced over the course of their lifetime to a constant prayer to simply get by another day as an interchangeable cog in a vast, faceless societal machine.
And then there were the stories of creative folks who seemed to live in their own little world: a quirky bunch who had realized along the way that the only reasons for doing anything are for the simple joy of being here to do it at all, and for what that activity might teach them about themselves in relation to this life that is living them.
And as I listened to this myriad of tales, I wept, I gasped, I laughed, and I wondered: what tales might twilight tell about me once my story is complete?