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SOMETIMES...just sometimes, you get to unplug from everything. When we choose to do it, it can feel artificial. The option is still there. The connection is silent, but persistently waiting for you to come back to it. When power is taken away, when it is not by your choice, you can't go back. You can't cheat yourself of the opportunity. Your laziness works in your favor. It would take too much effort to find a source, a connection.

That is when you get to reconnect with human stories. Your story. Our stories are not well crafted things. Neil Gaiman wrote about that. When the unusual, or peculiar, enter our lives, we don't get to know the reason, the arc to the story. It can just sit there. Out of place, it leaves us wondering, maybe frightened because we have nothing to anchor it to. It remains undeniably "Other".

We don't need the strange to make our stories. We don't need anything but ourselves and the world around us to have something to think and dream about. We make our world strange. We make our world into a place where we claim dominion through logic and willful ignorance. Yet, we have no dominion. No real logic. We barely have instinct. Most of us have a slumbering will, a latent determination of ourselves and the world beyond our skin. We let others tell us what our story is. We accept the values of systems that start off as theory or speculation, but with the weight of time and repetition behind them grow into foundations and frameworks. We get used as bricks and mortar, steel and glass, components of a shared assumption growing large in a world we see as ever shrinking.

Our stories are small but precious. Drops of water that flow into a great ocean of humanity, salty and full of life under the surface. But we don't like to really tell our own stories. We like to tell the stories others want to hear from us, that we want to give to them. We don't know how to tell our stories anymore. We don't know how to bridge the gap between ourselves and the world we are part of.

I do not know my own story. I know the story I tell myself. I know the story I tell others. The story changes. The story grows. It winds its way close and distant to the true story, but I wonder if I (like everyone else) will ever learn how to tell a real story. A real truth. All I have are fragments reflected in distorted lenses, cast in lights by others around me. Because even though I know the story I tell you, I do not know if it is the story you hear.

I wonder what you hear. I wonder what you see in my looking glass.

Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
lovehunny
May. 17th, 2010 04:06 pm (UTC)
Do you remember me? Good to see youre still around. I have FB,and to be honest,confuses me. No one seems to be on lj anymore.. hmm..blaah
weijian
May. 24th, 2010 09:58 pm (UTC)
Hey there,

I mostly just ghost on here, but I still post every random once in awhile. Hope you are doing well.
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )

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