What then was my life about, if I were asked to tell you my story? Was my life about wistful nostalgia for visiting big cities during warm, humid months when rain threatens to send everyone dashing madly for an awning or a random cafe? Was my life about being a stranger or a friend? I can tell you that my life was full of novelty or uneventful. You can decide. If I didn’t fight in a war or waste away with an addiction, do I have an interesting story to tell?
What if my life was about isolating all that is truly me, and sloughing off the chaff that I had unintentionally or knowingly accrued? What if my life was about asking this world if true friends do exist–ones who don’t require you to be a certain way to fit their expectations of who you are and ever shall be through all of Time?
What if my life was about taking a lifetime to grow as much as most people do during their teenage years, and still discovering vast tracts of soulspace that required cultivation?
Are my happiest memories the most novel ones? Or, perhaps the ones where things were trending for the better? Or, did I choose to forget most of my happy experiences, so that I might mine the material of the soul at unease, anxious over its place in the afterlife, and anxious about befriending souls it couldn’t quite bring itself to completely trust?