Member-only story
Who am I?
If no one reads your story, do you even exist?
The tantalizing truth about life is that it can only be felt in the immediate moment. Imagine the last time you saw a beautiful landscape, a child bidding her Mum goodbye, or a hungry woman enjoying a meal. Now, narrate it. Write it out on paper. You can be the most eloquent writer or storyteller. But however well you portray the moment, something of its essence is indescribable.
The act of describing life changes it. It changes in the telling, and also in the listening. Most importantly, it changes in the imagining. You have to wonder then whether anything is really true. Was the sunset last evening really that radiant? Or did it transform itself into something beautiful only when you remembered it?
And if nothing you remember is factual, then nothing you have done is constant. Fake news and alternative truths. Put on a different glass, step into another’s skin, and the world changes. A zero sum game. And you follow that thought to its logical conclusion: what is the true worth of your life, really?
You are flickers in the dark, seen from afar. One man’s toy is another man’s weapon. You are only what others see you for. But if interpretation is the only thing that matters, you have to wonder. If no one reads your story, do you even exist? Does anyone?
