The story is not my life.
The story is my life in cross-sections and threads.
The story is millions of smaller stories, winding their way to epiphanies.
The story is putting these child stories together in mosaic–not always pretty or smooth, not always a Matisse or a Gauguin, colors blurred like rainfall. The story is not the painters themselves, hunched over canvass, bodies rigid, furrowed brows, chiseled away from unfinished surfaces ahead. The story is not a dark freckle on their greasy foreheads. It’s just one string of the arc. The story is muddy and messy. It is a meandering wildfire. A spark into untold reality.
I am not the story.
I am not blurred watercolors; I am not untold. But I am. I am a piece of the whole, a thread in the yarn of narrative. I am a creator, but I am not omniscient. I don’t know what comes next.
Because I am not the story.
But I am muddy and messy. Meandering. A rough surface. An epiphany.
I am coming into all these things. As I write, I am becoming. Becoming a story.
But I will never be.
This story will never be me.
