Unraveling Strings

Maybe we don’t have to make sense of our stories after all.

I once believed that life was strung together by a long string. Much like the game Unravel, one would get through each level of life as a being of yarn. Every step forward would cost a significant portion of what kept us together. To walk forward was life itself, and the used string would be left on the ground as a map to where we started. I therefore would attempt to think like a storyteller. “If I were writing my own story, what would be the natural progression of events?” I’d ask myself and I’d always look back to the bright red thread that exposed my path to get where I was. There were two problems with this. One, I’d rely on a path that had to therefore make some sort of sense from a time where I was not even making my own decisions. The string attached itself to a childhood where I had to make sense out of circumstances I couldn’t control. Then there was the other glaring problem that I was not the author to my life. We attempt to write our story but the Man with the pen tends to throw in plot lines we did not see coming.