I think back and I realize that I have many stories in my past — though most of them I don't recall very much, just the hunch that they have been, that I have lived through these plotlines in some way, as observer, passenger, or actor. I was continually being pulled into narratives, during my madness. Whereas people have little daydreams every once in a while about being rich or something (something normal), I would have strange adventures with such things as psychic trees communicating with me through the book I was reading (made, after all, from dead trees). And then, moreover, there are those stories I might never tell anyone, too dark or too strange to relay in full detail, if at all.
I don't know what they mean, neither the sum total of them, nor each one individually. Maybe something will hit me sometime in the future, or maybe the lesson to learn is simpler. Humility, for instance, seeks sparingly to ask that infinite question: "Why?"
