Life's story
Every life is a story, an "Epic," or so John Eldridge would choose to tell me.
I sit here this afternoon, reading the stories of so many lives. And though I have entered into the picture mid-plot, I am captured by the intricate world they have created around themselves.
And I wonder why so many feel compelled to send their story out into the oblivion of the internet. So many who seem to write to no one, and for no one. Still, we put counters on to see how many anonymous eyes read our tales.
Is is because we must convince ourselves that our story does, in fact, matter? That somebody has taken enough interest to read the words that describe our existence?
Because it's one thing that the people we love think we matter. They have to, I suppose, because we are characters in their own story.
But I also wonder about you, reader. What so compells you to read the story of some other life?
I wonder this about myself even. I'm addicted. I'm addicted to reading about the every-day existence of people.
Why?
Why are you here reading now?
Is there nothing more important that you can be doing?
Is there no more pressing matter to which I should attend?
I read about a bipolar author who hides behind his stories, a working mom with a beautiful daughter, a housewife on the verge of a breakdown, a college student breaking up with her life's love. And why am I not able to stop? What driving force causes me to click onto their page every day to read the next chapter of their lives?
I don't have an answer.
I was hoping you would.
Because maybe if you tell me your story, and why you are here reading mine, then perhaps my story might be that much more complete.