None of the Stories I Tell are Real

Then do we still need the tears?

Photo by Diz Play on Unsplash

Lately, I have been setting my fictions aside and diving into the world of nonfiction. As a young person, I might not have that many life experiences but some of them are rather unique.

I’m not blogging about a strange anecdote tied together with a life lesson to teach. I’m not trying to sell you anything.

I’m just trying to leave a mark on this vast internet.

I tried making listicles — they seem to be popular here — but they usually leave me feeling hollow inside.

That kind of emptiness is special. Only works I truly care about can fill that void. For me, it is fiction.

The sense of creating something out of nothing is real to me. It’s creating worlds. It’s like playing god.


When I was a lot younger, I used to walk past the newspaper stand on the way home and for certain, every week there would be a new issue of the YA magazine I follow. I would pay the smoking old man in scattered cash, and be on my way with the booklet.

The cover was always nice and illustrated by up-and-coming artists. The magazine was full of short stories, genre ranging from literary to science fiction. There were author interviews, too. Those acted as my muse and a glimpse into a future I would like to have.

There were several writers I like, with no one particular being my favorite.

A few months ago, while preparing for a trip abroad, I got distracted by the local social media and went stalking my favorite author when I was a child.

I came across a short poem. I will translate it here.


None of the Stories I Tell Are Real

By Qi Ci

None of the stories I tell are real
Then do we still need the tears?
Secretly saved in the pillow and the desk
Turning imagination bitter, making time rain dry
Then do you still need to use these clear blue drops
To save the blind girl you like?
Then do we still need to believe
Believing the deepest sky, the farthest land
Making the devil quiet, turning the claws soft
Believing in the gods walking past the rooftop
Trying to be the best little kid?
Then do we still need to believe, to journey?
To sail from the front gate to the next street
Still need to light up every single star sky
Light up the dark village?
Tell me, do we still need to set up
The last warm camp of this land?
Then do you still need me to tell you a story
My dear
How you wish to climb down from the bedtime story
And grow up
Leaving these old picture books, and the storytellers
By the dimming yellow light
Left blank, by you


If none of them are real, do they still matter? The stories I tell are just that, stories. They rarely expose real-world problems and never fix them, won’t solve climate change, can’t bring us one step closer to world peace forever. They aren’t even good utopias, the kind that allows an escape into fantasy.

Why do I still write if no one is watching? It feels like a solo ballet in an empty theater, and the spotlight is a gaze of mediocrity.

Why are there still stories when there are more than enough in the world?

Because the authors care. Because I care.

Because you do, too.


© Aurelia Wong 2019

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