So Long, Stories

The following is a continuation of the stories The Games that God Plays and Grooving with God:

Where the Groove had taught Samah the weightlessness of choice, something new now called him forward. The music of the Carnival still pulsed in his bones, yet there, in the corner of his awareness, lingered a quiet thread—the texture of stories unspooling.

God appeared beside him, still smiling. "You’re ready for the next game."

"What is it?"

"The Game of Stories."

The Fool cartwheeled into view, sparks of glitter trailing behind him. "Ah, the sticky stuff! The narrative velcro! Come, this one’s a riot."

Together, they stepped into a new tent that shimmered with story threads, each glowing and vibrating, woven through the air like cosmic tinsel. The sign above read:

The Story Surrender Station

"These are the stories you’ve tied to everything," God explained. "Objects, people, memories, events. All of your experience. You narrated all of it. You carried them. They moved you because you believed the stories were the thing."

Samah reached out to a thread attached to a worn mug. As he touched it, a rush of memory surfaced: morning rituals, shared laughter, the scent of old friends, a sudden desire for coffee.

"The mug isn’t heavy," the Fool said. "The story is."

Samah exhaled and watched as the thread softly loosened and floated away, the mug now simply a mug.

He moved to a photo of his younger self. The thread hummed with old ache, old pride, old proving.

"Ah," God mused, "the story that you were never enough until you became."

"I see it now," Samah said, fingers brushing the thread until it gently unraveled. "I don’t need that one anymore."

One by one, Samah released the stories tethered to objects, places, events, even the faces of those he loved.

And when he reached the mirror—that thread was the thickest of all.

The Fool tilted his head. "The story of 'Who I Am.' Quite the clingy one."

"Without this," Samah whispered, "what remains?"

"You do."

The thread dissolved in his hands. The reflection remained, but it shimmered with a freshness he had never known.

"Now," God said, "you can meet the world as it is. As you are."

They stepped outside, and the Carnival had changed. It gleamed brighter, but it felt lighter. As if the attractions, the games, the very ground had shed their stories, too.

Faeon appeared again, looking at Samah with curiosity as he sipped from a cup of curiosi-tea. "You've found the groove beyond the story. The raw rhythm. The clean beat."

Samah smiled. "So long, stories."

"You don’t need them to know."

"I don’t need them to feel. I don’t need them to be."

God gestured toward the expanse. "Now you move agravitally. You groove without the hidden pull. You meet everything freshly."

"But the stories?" Samah asked. "Do they vanish?"

God smiled. "They become like music you can hear but no longer have to dance to."

The Fool spun in place, glitter flying from his cuffs. "You can pick them up. You can set them down. You can wear them for fun and let them fall away again. The stories don’t hold you—you hold them."

Samah laughed. "Like costumes in the Dresser."

"Exactly!" the Fool chimed. "You can try them on. You can play. But now you remember—you’re the one choosing."

As Samah walked, the Carnival shimmered around him. Attractions pulsed with invitation, but none tugged at him. None weighed him down.

He passed a tent called The Gallery of Old Faces. Inside, he saw people he’d once loved, once resented, once misunderstood. Each face glowed, free of the sticky stories he’d attached to them.

He waved, and they waved back—as themselves, unburdened.

He entered the Tent of New Eyes. There, lenses shimmered on velvet pillows, each one offering a fresh perspective. He picked up one labeled: Today’s Eyes.

He put them on.

The world gleamed. People, places, objects, moments—each pulsed with a vividness he had never fully seen.

Faeon strolled beside him, tail swishing through time. "How does it feel?"

"Like breathing for the first time."

"Good," said Faeon. "Because the groove beyond stories is the groove that doesn’t pull you toward or push you away from anything. You meet what you meet. You choose what you choose. That’s all."

"And the old stories?"

"They might whisper, but they can’t move you unless you invite them."

The Fool, still spinning, called out, "Next stop? Wherever your groove wishes to take you."

Samah laughed, light and free, stepping beyond the groove of stories into the groove of pure choice, smiling as he walked toward whatever came next.