The stories we tell

by marin mikulic

I went to the library and leafed through a book. Watched a YouTube video. Listened to someone, somewhere, anyone, anywhere.

I found stories upon stories upon stories.

We are storytellers. There’s no getting away from it, especially if you try.

I close my eyes in meditation and inhale the peace of a still mind. But that’s the moment I realise my mind is anything but still. It’s a tornado, an earthquake, a gale, a raging sea, a pandemic, and a sweltering hot day - all at once

And why? Because it’s a story machine, a printer. It keeps spewing out stories. Endless lines of narrative dedicated to the eternal audience of one. Me.

Although I have no insight into your mind, I’m guessing your story is similar to mine. There it is again - your story. Mine. Hers. Theirs.

Everyone’s got one.

The early humans saw the moon and the stars and wondered. How come those hang in the sky? What is the sky? What is lightning? This is where mythology comes from, the oldest story. Attempts to make sense of the world, painted onto the walls of caves.​

By ancient Homo Sapiens.

​These attempts come in all flavours. The quirky, tense, easy, heavy, the horrific, destructive, and the ones that inspire. They whisper in our ears, little pixies, painting a picture of the world. Therein lies their power, and their danger.

​Buying into a destructive story will destroy a life. I close my eyes and listen to the narrative in my head. Some days it’s positive and others… it’s not. The world constricts, and it’s harder to breathe.

But the wind eventually blows. Another story takes up lead and life brightens. It’s a cycle. No life is always on the bright side. The more someone pretends so, the darker their story.

​It’s important to choose an empowering, positive, optimistic story. Something that runs on its own, in the unconscious. Whispering in your ear: "Yes, it gets difficult, but you’ll find a way. Sort it out. Crack the problem."

Many stories come from childhood when we are most impressionable. I think back to my childhood, to the good stories, and the rough. Children are tiny spiders, weaving the stories that float about into a spiderweb of personal experience.

Ericka Herazo

The rest of life is really about understanding the spiderweb and telling stories that won’t kill you before you die. And while this may be hard, remember that it is possible. Remember who first weaved the spiderweb.

Who gets to tell your story.

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