You’re born into the middle of someone’s else’s life; pushed out onto the stage during the middle of someone else’s big monologue. That’s their spotlight that’s warming your tender skin and blinding your sensitive eyes, kid.
Your lines are not your own to speak until you’ve owned them for a long time. How much of your personal dialogue – your own story – was subtly embedded within you by your parents, or by their parents? Where do they end and you begin?
Plans – words- are just intentions, not guarantees. Everyone you know is really just making it up as they go along. Anyone who claims otherwise is bullshitting you.
Life can strike a hard line for you to cross. The proof’s in the pudding. Actions speak louder than words. Put your money where your mouth is. Shit or get off the pot.
It’s up to you to take all your little threads of memory, the little scraps of life from your past, and weave them into something new. If you’re artistic type, you’ll feel compelled to externalize it all – to make some artefact that others can see. That’s your inner gut-animal crying out “Look at me! See me! Join me!”
Maybe, whether or not you create an artefact, you are still creating something real and new each day, just by living your life. You are still adding to the fabric of life just by being there.
Maybe you are the tapestry that you’ve been trying to create all along.