Your life is a story. A clutter of seemingly random events. You look back to highlight certain moments in your book of life that are vital, significant to the main plot. You trace each thread back to their origins, where you think is it’s beginning, finding omens, signs and ironies dispersed along the way. Until it all feels inevitable, and you think your life makes sense. You already know how this story is going to end but you’re still eager to jump ahead dying to know what happens next. And then, you realize that there are times when you look up and recognize that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore.
You thought you were meticulously following the arch of your story. You keep finding yourself immersed in passages you don’t, can’t comprehend. Either something seems important or nothing at all. It’s just a mess of moments that doesn’t seem to belong in the same genus. It keeps changing on what you pick to highlight. What kind of story is this? Is it just another coming of age tale? Is it the same one your parents told you about but with the names switched around? Is your everyday life part of an origin story that’s truly classic? Or are you unwittingly getting by from people’s goodwill? Just mistaking your own dumb luck with unexpected success. Are you a character in a romance? A tragedy in a play? A travel log full of self-discovery? Or just another ordinary cautionary tale? Are you on a cusp of a heart-breaking twist? Is this the best it’s ever going to be?
As you flick through the years, you may never know where it’s all going. The only thing you know is there is more to this story. Soon enough, you’ll flip back to this day looking for inklings and clues of what’s to come. You re-read all the chapters and sub-chapters you skimmed through to get to the good parts. It’s always a bad habit you’ve have had in your storied life. Only to discover that all along you were supposed to choose your own adventure.