Stories and Vectors
An identity is this "Story of Me", a vector that points towards the future with both solemn gravity and hopeful yearning.
The is different than when others point to "Me", with precision and finality. Externally imposed stories feel sharp and suffocating, even when well intentioned.
We rebel against externally imposed stories. Who are they to tell us who we are and where we should be?
When a story is not allowed to breathe it feels blocked. Anything that interferes is conflict and collision.
Like at an airport where everyone else is an obstacle.
Anyone who gets in the way is an enemy. Anyone going too slow is an NPC.
Retreats feel calm because the stories do not point so insistently, trying to shove their way into open space. Everywhere is open, physically and mentally.
For a few days everyone puts down their stories. That desperate seeking subsides. The silence makes room for the storm to settle. The stories unknot themselves and gently float.
The undisturbed reflections allow us to see who we were and who we are becoming.
To be addicted is to be stuck in a story that is always fighting reality. One that has lost the plot and is always stuck at the airport. Ever other story is an imposition.
You have to shove yourself forwards to feel seen. There is a constant fear of disappearing into the crowd. You no longer know why you are traveling or why you are so flustered, arguing with this random person. Something about not making it...
My Story has a capital S, it should part seas of conflict like a prophet. A path paved to promised destiny.
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Like traveling in a car or plane, the more we only care about the destination the faster we want to go. We pay dearly for small luxuries in such a cramped space.
We hold it in until we desperately need to purge. We reach open space to relieve ourselves of what we carry.
Cigars are lit in the darkness. A flash of light. "I am alive."
Another flash "And so am I."
Red embers fade in and out like childhood memories of fireflies.
The scent of flowers mixes in with bitter smoke.
Outside everything glows softly white under the reflection of the moon... which itself is a reflection of the sun.
A new day is rising. The stories move ever onwards.
