I know what you did last summer, and the summer before that. You were taking part in a story of yours, whether it's dead now or ongoing. When you look back in your life, all you see is a story after another, building up like chain reactions, exhausting or encapsulating one another. Our souls are made up of handmade stories. It's how we are "told". It's the meaning, the definition, the mold. In movies, songs, books, pictures, photos, and everywhere you go, stories are what you're after. People you meet, love, hate, bother.. are your lead or support actresses/actors. In your radio-like-head, you listen to these tales & mares, over and over and over with "relative" interpretations, control-freak inflators, and degrading deflators. The more winding they are, the better. The juicy story of today is what fills in the matrix when you stare out at the road with troubled eyes in between your house and the office. It makes you feel, and tremble. When doing chores, or homework or walking, you automate the body to do the basics, and the head gets lost in the matrix imagining. Because building stories is what you are "really" doing. Thus, if basic reality turns out to be a misery, it is thus reduced to become a small part of this timeless melody, with no climax and little use.
