I have a tendency to look at life in terms of narrative structure - the way things ebb and flow, a receding wave that occassionally sweeps across the wide expanse of the shore. The sea's debris is scattered on the sand - pieces of shell and coral, driftwood twisted into macabre shapes, the ripple of seaweed tangled up like mermaid's hair. We pick and choose, don't we? We allow our fingers to choose the material - smooth and rough, cool to the touch, something that catches the corner of our eye, a star given up by the sea. These are the stories we live with, the stories we go through, the stories we remember.
Because the only thing constant in this world is change, it surprises me that there exists a space where I can breathe, a kind of metaphysical bubble that surrounds every second, where I am allowed a reprieve from everything else. And there is a part of me that relishes this opportunity to pause, like when the narrator of a story gives an aside, focuses the lens of the story on some other minor character while the main character is given a break behind the scenes. What happens between the pages is something that we will never really know, because it's something invisible, uninformed, cannot be read.
But I am also apprehensive about change - I think I'm finally finding the space that belongs to me, and the long ribbon of my future is beginning to unfold right before my eyes. I'm just hoping and praying that wherever this journey takes me, it's to somewhere good, and that I will be granted the chance to be happy in the choices that I am willing to make. After all, this is what change is all about, right?
And so the story marches on.