The story of my life. Well it is rather ponderous to conceive of a story, let alone of my rather uneventful life. All i can proffer are mnemonics and thought processes, ruminations which, though alternately sanguine and painful, nonetheless are inconsequential. The pattern of my ratiocination might yield an odd nugget here and there but my formulations, once prized for their singularity, have revealed themselves, with time, to be part of a continuum of a larger consciousness. Thus i oscillate between a defusing of my perspicacious grandiloquence and relief that my nebulous adumbrations, which accumulated certainties as i measured them with my experience, have been cogitated by others. Sometimes philosophical reflections can induce great solitariness particularly if they are counter to our cherished certainties. I do make the requisite emendations, never abrogating external reality but the challenge is a workable concordance between inner and outer, a confluence that renders them indivisible yet intersectional.
The idea of a story around one's life invokes the element of randomness and happenstance. It crystallizes the incertitude. It demonstrates that narrative control is chimerical and can be embroidered and permutated differently. Even more striking is the irreconcilable gap between what i seek to convey and its absorption by my interlocutors. This underlying amorphousness necessitates a relinquishing of control which discomfits me greatly. I would like to be in control, even while transmitting the incommunicable. I would like to believe that my readers are looking glasses who reflect me a version of myself unambivalently. But a looking glass confounds such self deception by compounding unknowability. And the question that arises, from within the interstices of a narrative whether our stories are really our own, whether the 'I' behind them is constant. Everything is flux, metamorphosis, including the self and to wish otherwise is to inhabit an imaginary prelapsarian dimension where our blueprints correspond to externality .
Also the idea of a story implies weightiness, ponderousness. A sufficiency of subject matter, presented interestingly, would deepen the enjoyment and involvement of a reader. But the disjointed nature of my thoughts, though indisputably fascinating are, nevertheless too fragmented to be comforting. They are imbued with verisimilitude, they are mimetic representations of the transitoriness of real life but such ingenuous replication, though ineluctably subversive, would lack consistency and continuity which a story affords. A story has a predetermined pattern whereas real life is misshapen, indeterminate and sometimes formless. A story is an imaginative reconstruction of the primevality of real life and implies conscious control which is salutary given our volitionless reality.
But it does strike me, with precipitant promptitude that even if the narrative of my life were diffused and unknowable it would still be a story. It would embody an account of itself in terms where a shape would emerge, a form which, by encompassing uncertainty, would intensify the narrative element that is subterranean. A story is kinetic, protean as is my life. As it meanders and traverses the pathways of self expression it will undergo incessant transmogrifications. Shreds and fragments will be sloughed off, added, conjoined or severed. But continuation and perpetuation of the story telling impulse would be unaltered though the shifts it undergoes will validate a transmutation and metempsychosis that would be incontrovertible. So perhaps my life is a story or stories,in themselves, are blueprints of life.