He asked the universe, what is the one thing that will define his existence. Make it stand out from the rest. He knew he had to know if ever to find peace. For what is this brief mortal life than the pursuit of legacy? Much to his surprise, the universe answered. It told him that he won't be defined by the riptide trying to pull him out to sea, but by how hard he shall swim to get back to the shore. Then it slapped him across the face. He understood that perhaps it's time to quit making his current experience his identity. He has to slowly start remembering who he made him to be.
If a story does its job, it doesn't ever end. Not really. It forever remains in flow, changing with the nature of its teller. Bending to sensationalism and the theatrics we pursue to make our lives seem a little less dull. Our life stories shift with each iteration. They take whatever form suits the bearer best. What begins as a story of sorrow can be acknowledged, held like a sweetheart to the chest, rocked and sung to. And then it can be set down to sleep. It can become an offering. A lantern. An ember to lead you through the dark.
