They're the untold histories throughout time; for all that ends up in books are the cold events: the what happened, to who, and when. Those books don't have the real histories, the insights into the lives of those who lived. Those books can never give the reality, because they never look at the real stories, of those people who lived, breathed, fought, loved.
There are enough of those stories to fill all the books in the world, but barely any of them will be written, which makes them all the more spectacular. The real glory of history isn't in what's written in the books, but what lies in between the lines, those white spaces between the letters, between the words, in the margins. And still there would not be enough space to write all that should be there; all the lives lived but untold.
We all have a history. We all have sorrows which lie hidden within us, we all have triumphs which are remembered as the happiest moments in our lives. Things we have run from, people we have loved, people we have hurt, the beauty we've seen, and the sorrows we have felt. We are all too afraid to let it all come back to haunt us, so we run, we forget, we move on. We never heal. The wound is left to fester, left to bleed, so even hidden in our past, the pain still shoots through us. The happiness too uplifts us, but it is often overshadowed. There can be no light without creating shadows. They are what we must face, what we must fight, what we must overcome.
Only then can we be secure enough to write our tales, and let it begin the revolution, where history becomes the people, their emotions, not the events.
So tell me, what's your story?