Human beings are storytelling machines. You tell your husband about your visit to the

hospital to see a friend after surgery. Your daughter laments an episode with the mean girls at school.

A coworker explains why he was late for work.

Stories fill our days, and they even fill our nights while we sleep. Those are called dreams.

The stories never stop. Most stories are forgettable. I can't tell you the last

dream that I remember. It's understandable. We forget most of what we see in here.

Some stories stick with us, however. The strange ones are easy to remember. Your neighbor tells you about the

unstable man in the cul-de-sac who claims to have seen aliens from another planet,

the woman at the local diner who claims to see Bigfoot

regularly on her farm. And then there's your boss who you greatly admire and he

confides in you that he has started speaking with his wife daily

when he gets home from work. She died eight years ago. If you're like me

you write these stories off as over active imaginations.

Are these people seeking attention or are they a bit unstable?

Well, no matter what you think, it troubles you that someone you know in love would tell you a strange story like this.

Maya Angelo wrote, there is no greater agony than bearing an untold a story inside you.

I suppose if I was taken by beans from another planet I would have to tell. It would be hard to keep that to

myself. But still you can't make yourself believe this stuff. It's too removed

from reality.

But what troubles you the most

is that question you push from your mind over and over.

Because if you think it or even say it,

...