As soon as my eyes open, the storytelling begins.
I could probably narrate every inconsequential and incidental detail as I live it; I have lots of voices inside that read aloud to me. Sometimes even my best shorthand can’t transcribe it, though, for the sheer speed of life. But, mostly, it’s like a movie that I’m watching and acting simultaneously.
Maybe I’m afraid of missing something. Maybe afraid of missing me in the midst of my one and only life. If I write it, it stands as a witness: it’s real, it happened. Maybe I need the validation of a sharp pinch in the arm to make me aware that this is me, and mine, and now, and no, I’m not asleep.
Maybe I’m a hoarder of experiences, and I can’t stash enough of them between two hard covers. I really don’t know why there’s a note-taker for fingernail clippings and raindrop skidding — there just is.
I think all of us are storytellers, actually. Most of our lines are crashing into each others’ and it’s a chaotic collage of sorts. Sometimes it’s symphonic — other times, the screeching tires of collision. It can be difficult to stay in our own lanes with so many intersections and merges, but inside each centrifugal force, an individual story. The copyright and loyalties belong to each of us. And while the audience may have some sway, ultimately we decide what we will record in a day.
So, what tales are you telling today?