Re: The Myth

It's a long road each man must walk. Everyone has their own story. I never wanted to tell another man's story, only my own. When I was a younger man I wanted to be a writer. I liked the idea of it. It felt like a suit of clothes that I could comfortably wear. I didn't know then what I know now, namely that back then I really didn't have anything to say. I thought I had a lot to say. I thought I had it all figured out. What a bunch of bullshit. I was as lost as lost could be and whistling in the dark to take my mind off the fear. I wanted to write because I thought it was cool. I wanted fame and glory. I wanted people to know my name. I wanted to be admired, accepted, adored, respected. I don't find anything wrong with those desires per se but I don't find them to be good enough reasons to want to write. I used to want to write. Now I feel the need to write. It's knocking at my door so loudly now. During my days and nights I think lyrically. That is, my thoughts are lyrical. I think in prose and poetry. I don't know if this is abnormal or unique because I really haven't ever thought in any other way. I don't know how other people think, whether it be in pictures and images or music or what all. I only know how I think. And I think in words. Strings of words spun together and woven on the wind.

All of our lives are a myth. Each life is a story, a fable. Everything has meaning. I believe it's for each man to decide the meaning of his own myth. I can't ascribe a value to an other's myth anymore than I can ignore the weight of my own. My story is not unique. My story is not extraordinary. It's every one's story. Only the names and places are different. I was born. I lived. I made my mistakes. I learned. I was victorious, defeated, heroic, cowardly, suspicious, trusting, fearful, brave. The whole gamut of human emotions, thoughts, feelings, actions, consequences. But again I return to my original point. I cannot tell of an other's experiences as I can of my own. The rich tapestry of experience is woven in the fabric of our daily lives, our actions and reactions, the thought world that underlies everything. If you were able to see others' thoughts on a daily basis what would it be like? Say you were walking down Main Street and above each soul's head there was a thought bubble containing that person's exact thought at that moment. Do you think you'd be shocked or surprised? Would it be amusing? Terrifying? Perhaps it would make your skin crawl. Maybe, just maybe you would look at your own life differently. I honestly don't know. I can't say how I'd react with that knowledge. This is why I can only tell my own story. I can't see your thought bubble. If I could I'd tell yours. But I don't have that gift. So I tell my own.