More and more your life becomes like a novel you read. You are the main character in your novel, and yet your life is made of your turning the pages and finding out what befalls. The story is told from your point of view, but you are like a journalist who watches events and then reports them.
Is not your life an unfolding of a story? And is it not a page-turner? And do you not have a story to tell?
And while you tell it, all the characters interact with you. The populace interacts with you.
The setting is like a character in your book. The moors or the desert, mountains or vale, the metropolis or farm. The circumstances and the times also are like characters who play a role. How rich is the book of your life! It even has threads that lead to a plot. You may not have been aware of the plot or even the direction of your novel, but you will reach them. Or they will reach you in one moment.
Your novel may be stream-of-consciousness, or it may not. It may be an action story. It may be everything. And, somehow, in your story lie all the stories of mankind. By the same token, even in period novels, you are also revealed. You are mankind entire.
No man's story is incidental. All are of great moment. One story does not exist without another. And yet there is only one story, and it is yours.
The question has been asked: What hath God wrought?
Well, God wrought you.
That is what I have done. Everything in the so-called past has led right up to you. You do not face the past. The past faces you. We could say you are faced in the direction of the future. We could say a lot of things but We also know that the past and future are nonexistent. Never were. Merely a smudge mark on a nonexistent scroll. Of no consequence whatsoever except as they are imagined to introduce you to the present. But the present is also not of time. If time and space were true, the present would be like a wide plain or horizon.
There are no lines on the circumference of the earth. All those are made-up. There are no borders in the world. There are no countries, no nations. They are merely myths made up and bowed to as truth.
The story of your life that you read (and sometimes write) is also all made up. The journey you take is all fiction. It is all imagined. Of course, great fiction seems real, very real. But imagination is a pleasure. Even imagining the harrowing has its pleasure. The intricacies and windings of life are a pleasure to you. Even when they torment you, they are exquisite chapters in your life.
Your nonexistent yet published story never ends. It spirals. There are many layers to the pages already written. We could say that your story is published in many languages all at once, one on top of the other, one inside the other. The Tower of Babel features in your story.
There are also unworded languages in your life. There are illustrations that no one has ever seen, and yet they are there, and strongly they hold the pages of your life together into one volume that fills all the libraries of the world.
There is also no language in your story. There is great silence. There is white paper upon which your story is written. For so have I given to you.