This is the story of a classroom window and the deer that flies through it.
This is the story of a thick-skulled retriever snoring under a wobbly table.
This is the story of gods and mortals and the wretched souls stuck in-between.
This is the story of imagining what color hair the bald professor had before he lost it.

Brown? Blond? Does it matter? questions the indifferent universe.

It’s true. No singular story holds a candle to eternity. No personal history
shines bright enough to matter in the long run. The only purpose of narrative
is solace. We want to have paths to follow. We need stories to give meaning
to our bodies. We are comforted by the notion that you and I must mean something:
that the written story scrawled between the planets of birth and death holds more
than just the sum of our actions. I am, in some way, a living, walking story.
A story mothered by blood and breath and bones. But who authored my heart?
What does it matter? If you were to peel back my skin, would words fall out?
Of course they wouldn’t. All stories are myths. Thinking this way,
all humans are merely imaginary. You. Me. Your mother’s mother.

So when the brown blond?-headed kid next to me
says It doesn’t need to mean anything, I believe him.
Why shouldn’t I? All stories are myths, right?
What you will eat for breakfast the day you die.
All of our petty morning quarrels.
The stupid way you fold your laundry.
This is the story of us. No one will ever read it.
Still, I write it down. This is how we stay alive.

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