To create a story, one needs a purpose. My purpose is to splash my insides onto the pages of a novel and expose myself to myself. I see this as my mirror.
Try to imagine your very first memory. It's impossible ofcourse, time and events have comingled into a stew of thoughts. These thoughts morphed into each other, grew, evolved, eventually dreams and realities are hard to distinguish. I can't decide whether i was cursed by a whore, or complemented. Who can decide whether either of the two would really be considered a good thing. I'm rambling...as i always do. My thoughts are racing and my expectations are clashing with my realities, until i can't move. My mind goes numb and i struggle to remember that i'm alive. Or rather i simply exist.
Then one day i have the misfortune of being elected master of my own destiny...how wonderful it would be. Truly to be able to control where my life leads, but then again if we could all do that we'd all be kings; But then, where am i right now. I want to believe that i have things under control, but control is an illusion. Choices are what we can view as control, therefore we must make choices that are best for us. I've rambled on for so long i forgot my point.