We’re all made of stories.
We’re all living stories.
We’re all making stories.
Everything in our lives can be seen as a story. There’s the story about how you were born, the story of whose braid you pulled in first grade, and when you got braces, and why you chose to take physics in high-school and where you had your first kiss.
We all tell stories every day. There’s the story you tell your best friend about how your date went last night, the story you tell your aunt about whose car you dented last week, and the one you tell your coworker about when the boss got drunk at the office party, and the one you tell your cat about why you’re giving him canned food instead of dry today, and the one you tell yourself about where you wish you were right now.
We all make up stories all the time, too. There’s the story of how you wish your father was alive, the story of whose life you’d want to try out for a day, and the story of when you’ll really feel like a grown-up for sure, and why you’re going to win the lottery next time and where you can picture yourself living in ten years.
But then, there are the missing stories.
The stories of horrible events that need to be suppressed.
The stories that you’ll never know, because there’s no one who can tell them to you.
The stories that will never be, because they’re too frightening to really accept.
Even then, though – there are stories. Every minute of every day of your life. They are stories.