How Does the Story End?

my favorite children’s book of all time – The Monster at The End of this Book

About a week ago my thoughts wandered into “am I happy?” territory.  A few years ago I had blogged that I didn’t think I’d ever be happy. And while I am certainly happier than I was back then, was I now happy? What would it take for me to be able to say to myself “I am happy, not just in this moment, but in general”.  I’m not sure I can get myself to that point and it revolves around the idea that I don’t know how my story ends.

This sounds a bit weird or perhaps overly controlling, but since none of us are psychic then I have no idea what’s going to happen in the future.  Tomorrow, my child could be kidnapped and murdered because life just tends to be random like that. And I know it’s not healthy to think that way, although sometimes people say enjoy today because you might die tomorrow, and so I’m a bit conflicted on what I’m supposed to think.

Regardless, I can’t help but think that way. It’s like I’m looking at my life as if it was a book or a movie where no one has told me the genre and I’m afraid that any minute it’s going to turn into a tear-jerking tragedy. So I’m just going to have to wait until I’m almost dead and that’s the only moment I’ll know what genre my life was in because I’ll know then how my story ends. And I don’t mean that in a completely self-absorbed way either. On my death bed (or however I die) I’ll have known the stories of all my loved ones up to a certain point and sometimes until their ends. And that’s an even more terrifying unknown.

So if my life is a book then who is the author? I’d like to think it’s me, but I can’t control the rest of the characters. Sometimes writing a book is that way, the world and people you create take on a life of their own and the story gets away from you. But overall, the analogy doesn’t really fit unless someone else is doing the writing.

But, if my life is a book and I am the author, then it’s a book I cannot edit. What I do is permanent and cannot be erased.  I cannot go back and make a different choice, or write in a more interesting scene, suddenly give myself 10 years of Karate lessons.  That’s the most sobering thought of all. Think about what you are doing because there is no way to undo it.  Think about what you are not doing because there is no way to reclaim that time.

There are few things I regret more than the time I feel I’ve wasted. If I am the author of my own life then I currently have a blank document open and the blinking cursor is mocking me.

made by vamptastica

 

*icon made by -vamptastica-

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