Life as story.

In my mind I can see the past, vividly and without any sense of reality. I imagine the way life could have been and the way life was. I don’t re-imagine the past purposefully; my mind goes memory-jumping, and I am left as a passive observer of false realities.

I can also see into the future: goodness, happiness, and me working fervently at a computer in an open room with the ethereal sound of rain falling in the city. I walk across the hardwood floor and step outside. Street lights change yellow, red, green and reflect in windshields and puddles on the sidewalk. I breathe deep and go back to my work.

If I were a character in my own story, I would have to ask myself: have I reached the point when a character makes his own choices, free from the writer’s pen and will? Have I taken on a life of my own?

Or am I following a thrid person omnipresent narration that I will and always have been following, regardless of choice or my perception of choice?

Each of us has a story: past, present, future. And our stories are pieced together seemingly random piece by random piece. It feels like so many pieces are missing. It feels like what is happening right now is supposed to and was always going to. It feels like you have a sense or idea of control, but really you have neither.

Will I end up breathing in the rain? Maybe. But the story could always take a turn.