It need hardly be said that good ideas sell themselves, that bad ideas only catch fire where (and when) ignorance is in ascendancy, and that only truly terrible and utterly ugly ideas require propaganda or violence to acquire or maintain a hold upon this long-suffering human world.
It is and remains a fact worth acknowledging that, for all the diverse utility and value of the narratives we acquire and (as often) submit to, none of these stories or interpretations are in any sense final, complete or even owned beyond the most trivial of legal or commercial notions of possession.
The part of the story we rarely comprehend is that this whole experiment and random fluctuation in the void that this chaotic planetary civilisation represents is quite profoundly lacking in authorship. No one designed this and all attributed meaning is entirely arbitrary, contrived, contextual and hollow without substance.
This is precisely why so many reflexively align themselves to the first narrative that walks into their lives and then, subsequently, spend the rest of their life latching onto the variously diverse stories and integrated systems of belief they encounter. We want to believe so much that we quite happily trade our effective freedom and manifest self-determination of intelligence and rational analysis for the warm and fuzzy feelings of hopes, dreams and the unjustifiable, unverifiable semantic spectres of any contemporary mythology that ticks our immediate existential boxes and desires.
What does a world without an author, without ultimate meaning or guidance look like? It looks like this world: confused, beautiful, unfair, brave, lonely and reflective.
What does a story that writes itself look like? This world.