I remember the first time I read a Humans of New York story. It was the story of two unremarkable lives, lived out in an unremarkable, ordinary fashion. It was really more of a short blurb. It ignored every single rule of storytelling. It lacked a beginning, middle, climax, and ending. It merely showed a small glimpse into the lives of an elderly couple in New York City.

There was, however, an element of astonishment present when I read this blurb. It wasn’t that there was a twist ending, or some provoking point was made. The astonishment was how much this little blurb made me feel. It was, in a single word, beautiful. It was raw, beautiful, life.

There is an undiscovered gold mine present in the ordinary. All to often storytellers bend over backwards in order to get an exciting story, one with action and drama. They force things into the story, things which most of the population will never relate to. But an elderly couple, just talking about life? That strikes a chord in the heart of man. Why?

Because it’s real.