“In the end, we all become stories.” – Margaret Atwood
My life would not be a book so much as it would be a box of scattered paper fragments. Each fragment containing a narrow aperture on the life and experience or learning I have undergone. Each narrow aperture, a window on a moment and a passing breath of wind or memory that like stochastic dust bears no pattern or meaning beyond that cultivated in or projected from the beholder. Each passing breath and memory, a hollow vessel and narrative arc of retrospective intention or hope. Every hollow arc and hope an incomplete story, fertile with possibility and creative insight but still ever so slightly melancholy and lonely in a definitively human sense.
My life is not a story, it is a collection of stories and I doubt whether I (or anyone else) ever truly authors or, self-inflected by introspection, reads the narrative fabric of their own experience. We attribute meaning post facto to what quite simply just is, to what exists, and in seeking meaning or purpose or teleology, we become entangled in anxious and ultimately futile (if still quite entertaining) patterns and symmetries of narcissistic self-determination.
My life is, perhaps, a novel about the synchronous futility, meaninglessness and profound wonder of philosophical insight.