Life is a series of plot twists. And not the satisfying climactic moments you later realize you were piecing together in your subconscious, or those everything-was-leading-up-to-this-moment moments. I’m talking about a cliffhanger at the end of a show that never gets renewed or the credits rolling after an ambiguous ending to a movie that’s several minutes too short. When the storylines I tell myself to survive a severe season are severed, my ability to suspend my disbelief is weakened. Distrust is born. Hope grows harder. Participation is painful. Why dream when dreams are only that? Dreams. Nothing but wives tales. Ghost stories. Urban myths. Bedtime stories for gullible children.
Despite plot holes and muddy themes, I will always have an affection for narrative. At the end of my life, I’ll have some story to tell. Maybe right now I’m far too plot-focused, trying to reduce my life to an IMDb synopsis (Contains Spoilers) instead of the series of impactful scenes and quietly unfolding moments my life was always designed to be. Once again I’m forcefully reminded of how enthralling it is to go in blind.