I have been considering the reality, context, and possible relevence of the Earthen’s evolutionary path. One revelation is a little jarring at first–
After serious retrospect, I’ve come to the realization that life is not made up of a conglomeration of stories. It is moments that, disconencted, would appear to have no exact, measurable, comprehendable, guessable meaning. Each instance is a single moment, only strung together by each individual’s own cognitive perception. And even beyond that, memory is all projection, recollaberation, and invention.
I have, for some time known this. I am still, as of yet, coming to terms with it. As a writer, I must perpetually re-evaluate it. So–
A story is manipulation, at its purest. Insidious propaganda at its most diluted. Most dilusional. Most harmful. A story teller is nothing but a clever liar twisting words to impress upon others a singular view of reality. A message – we all say. A purpose. A goal. Themes and metaphors for the reality said story teller claims to extrapolate, elucidate for those of their time and beyond.
But these concepts are inventions we story tellers have created.
Perhaps, the telling, the manipulating, the imbuing things with deeper meanings and significance than they once had came with the drugs. That first taste of a hallucinogenic mushroom. The first sensation of being lifted off the ground through the top of one’s head. The first lackadaisical, dreamless sleep. The first hyperactive chatter. The first transe with eyes wide awake. The first incoherent babble. The first falling sensation while standing perfectly still.
We all recognize, remember, can relate to at least one of these. Some more than others. Those of the past perhaps more than those of us now, possibly. Though, that’s hard to tell.
Still, I think this is what perhaps created in us this need to retell, recall, remember. This yearning to pass on, alter, create, destory. This necessity to tell tales, stories, alternate versions of reality with hidden meanings tucked deep inside. As time goes on, we go deeper into this well, I think.
Or, perhaps, we were dropped into a strange sort of darkness and stories are just us trying to claw our way back out.
On either side, it is a strange and baffling thing we feel the need to do. To reconstruct the present with comments on the past or the future. With recollections of events that never happened. With emotions tied to people who never lived. With histories for worlds we did not inhabit.
A strange and yet, I’d wager, uniquely Earthen experiment.
One I cannot escape and will not leave.
What this means of my “import” to the rest of existence?
Very little, perhaps. But then, perhaps more than I think. I am satisfied with either reality, as a fiction writer is wont to be.
My level of acceptance here, I’m slowly beginning to see, may just be nothing more than–
Oh well, oh well.
If nothing else, we get by. Survive. Stay alive a day, a moment, another reconstructed memory longer. And when I die, this imaginary spirit breaks apart and this phsyical form becomes another piece of food for others trying to do just the same.
I have, after all, all along, been the sea.
This insignificant spherical closed up drop of water was never large enough to encompass me.
So, when I fall apart, I return to what was always within me.
And then, shattered apart and broken free, released from both story and memory.