I met someone.
Thus far, we’ve exchanged no more than three brief conversations, yet on my bus ride home today, I welled up thinking about this person.
This is beauty.
It wasn’t tears of joy, or tears of sadness; it was mere overwhelming emotion. It’s what you feel when you know you’ve met someone’s soul.
The other day, someone asked me what my story is.
I don’t like that question: It seems to be asking for some dramatic life story—a spectacular trauma; an epic struggle. Often, we don’t live like that. Instead, we exaggerate the impact of events, magnify the importance of our selves, and distort our stories, in an attempt to intrigue ourselves and others.
It seems to assume our lives are defined by physical occurrences. Not mine.
I have no story. If someone made a movie about my life thus far, it would be a terrible movie to watch indeed. Nothing happens; yet my mind races. Perhaps one day when the language of the mind is invented will I be able to appropriately document my story.