Didion said: “we tell ourselves stories in order to live.”

One of the stories we tell ourselves to live is that we’re portholes to the universe — unbiased observers looking through clear glass at undistorted views.

But I think that’s just a story.

Instead we’re authors, always writing the universe we inhabit. Our brains are escritoires crammed with pencil and pens, erasers and white-out. Some stories wipe away experiences — redacting knowledge that’s bright and harsh. Other stories serve to block these sharp truths, acting as a raised hand in front of our eyes, eclipsing painful light so we can keep moving forward.

And as our sight becomes dark and cool again we have the opportunity to confront what our mind avoided. Though perhaps as my Dad might’ve said:

“I dunno if we ever really do confront ourselves… but we sure like telling the story that we will.”