I have a strong need for stories - they’re how I make sense of the world and myself. It’s hard to sit with complete randomness and call it a day. Yes, shit does happen. But in my mind, as long as I can give it meaning, I can integrate it and then be free of it.

This need sometimes drives me into incessant cycles of asking “why”, “what does this mean”, “what if I was wrong”, “could I have done it differently”, “what is the lesson here”, and more.

I’m not sure when it all started. Maybe it stems from all those bedtime stories with my parents? Or maybe it began when I started experimenting with writing my own fictions as a teenager?

These days I enjoy telling stories from my life. A quote from a TV show I’ve been rewatching (Community), a friend’s warm gesture during the week, or a visit to the ER. It triggers a distant and dormant memory. I see the connections now. I document them. By writing these stories, my life seems to become a little lighter.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m forcing meaning where there isn’t any.

That’s an uncomfortable thought - holding meaningful and meaningless at the same time. That dichotomy is where I see a lot of people trip up. Once they believe in something, they can’t hold room for anything else.

I want to believe the world is more complex and nuanced than what meets the eye. Maybe sometimes life is logical and scientific, and other times mysteries and stories rule the day.

The writing then is my way of staying curious about the world. My stories could be completely wrong, but I’m here to witness it.