Dissent Decree

I am sitting in a narrow hall at a tiny 2-person table just across from the men’s room. The wall next to me is a dingy green and the carpet at my feet is reddish brown adulterated with cookie crumbs, mud and oil stains. I hear many voices and smell the competing aromas of several brews. I am in Biggby’s coffee shop—physically. But where am I really?

I am somewhere on my traverse from birth to death, somewhere in my ongoing story. I am somewhere on my spiritual journey with no assurance of enlightenment. And I hope I am somewhere on the road to self-knowledge and understanding.

Each of us is our story—the story of our journey as told to ourselves and by ourselves. Likewise, we are the stories others tell of us.

I know my story is made up. All stories are. The fact is there are no facts outside the story. Only the story can give meaning to the facts. So there is nothing but fiction—or belief. Only the story can be truth.

Perhaps it is a delusion to believe I have learned anything. Nonetheless I believe that everything I have ever done or experienced has no more meaning than what I ascribe to it— the meaning of my experience derives from my story—the story I choose to tell.

For the living, there is only the here and now—the moment. Now is all that can be lived. So my story (like everyone’s) is my memories of the past interwoven with my imaginings of the future—as experienced in the moment. So where I am really is always somewhere in my story.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009