I continue to consider the loveliness of story. I think I have come to realize that the concept is why I ever began to write. Along with this idea (or maybe, within) are two particularly human reasons. The first I think is entirely selfish: I yearn to relish in each moment longer than a moment lasts. It is an impossible thing to do, but by collecting some small collection of evidence of any given experience or time or action I am able to contain that instance to come back to whenever. Which I rarely do, if ever; but it quells the great fear within me that I have lost that feeling or that thought--that me--forever. I will not feel it again or think it again, at least not in the same venerable and honest way that happens as a byproduct of us all struggling for air, but I have kept record that these things happened, that I existed then as I do now. And there is still much to be gained within the captured... new thoughts on the same subject arise from the new lens of a new me. I don’t think I lose anything by writing.
The second reason is also selfish, but perhaps not entirely so: I find a mysterious value in the telling of a story. It is something akin to the Swedish proverb, “A joy shared is double joy, a sorrow shared is half a sorrow”: that merely by offering yourself in whatever way you so choose, you create a bond that cannot be broken because it has already been given. It believes in the enrichment of everything through connection. I believe in it too. It is why I write to you here. There is a sanctity to knowing about another; because even in tall tales there is enough truth to see a reflection of yourself. We will learn, one way or another, through the mirror in each other. The pleasant and miraculous will shine back greater each time. The painful and grievous will grow dim. There is no hope for us if we are apart. So I will speak of my life and all that is in it, for both our sakes.