Stories

Peer deep enough into the present and you’ll find there’s nothing solid to grasp. Like an endless pinch to zoom, “now” expands or contracts without ever resolving into a final unit–asymptotically approaching definition, but never quite intersecting. However ineffable moments are, our lives are made up of them. One moment we’re washing the dishes, the next we’re driving to work; one moment we arrive, the next we’re gone.

Moments compose a life, but they don’t define it. Stories do. It’s the word, not the letter, that carries meaning. Stories are the frameworks we build to make sense of the disorienting present.

Who we are is not how we feel, but how we consistently act regardless of how we feel. Most exemplified in the phrase “Love is a verb,” emotions should not be confused with actions. Emotions may change, moment to moment, but actions have nothing to change–they are mechanical, able to be performed rain or shine. We can only write our story if we pick up the pencil.

The stories we tell ourselves, the stories other people tell themselves, and the stories we tell ourselves about each other are inherently subjective. The stories I write are my perception of reality–an attempt to organize the bundle of moments I’ve been given, like wooden Scrabble letters drawn from a bag. Letters, though fundamental, are abstract; Words carry information. And with information, we can learn, connect, and understand.

Despite their subjective nature, we need stories–we are stories. We write ourselves into existence, so who are you choosing to be?