We tell ourselves stories to explain what happens inside our heads – “I think I fell in love with her that day I saw her walk across the street in the rain.”
We tell ourselves stories to explain what happens inside our bodies – “As soon as I eat mushrooms I can feel the blood rush to my head.”
We tell ourselves stories to explain what happens outside us – “Everything was OK until the day he got that job and left for China.”
Even when we go crazy we invent new stories to explain the surreal world to ourselves. To others it may be hard to understand what we are thinking and doing but even so, regardless of how mad we really are, within us we are following a definite, coherent narrative that makes sense within it’s own world.
We work our way through the maze that is life because we narrate our lives to ourselves,
to each other,
out of the past,
into the future.
Coarse and delicate, soft and hard, terrifying, comforting, hopeful, black and white and grey and red and pain and flow and plans and hopes and kisses and tears and touches and blows and green and hot and then and then and then…
The destiny of the world is determined less by the battles that are lost and won than by the stories it loves and believes in.