That is the day we glimpse freedom. When you’re ready to let it go, because you’ve told it so many times, to so many people, that it sounds boring even in your own head, look behind the story to see the indescribable wonder that is truly here now.

The story is the lie of who you are. That’s why it becomes heavy and tiresome, unreal even. It’s an aggregate of infinite images, thoughts, and emotions welded together so haphazardly that, while it might appear to be true, it’s a tad hideous in shape and smell.

Memories are nothing more than unreliable interpretations of fuzzy images, random thoughts, and fairly convincing emotions and feelings. They’re all thrown together to make a strange-tasting soup we call “me.”

It could be the story of unprecedented success accompanied by a lurking feeling that some kind of mistake has been made. It could be a story of all the ways life has cheated and defeated you. It could even be a story of “I’m happy just the way things are…” with the silent subtext “…so ask me no questions and leave me the hell alone.”

It doesn’t matter who the characters are, or whether it’s a comedy or tragedy. It’s the acting, the role, that becomes oppressive—to the point that you finally must look at the truth of it all.

Is this who I really am? Stop playing the role, if only for an instant, and see what happens in that seemingly infinite space before you pick it up again. Could that feeling be it? Is it really that simple?

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.~ Shakespeare

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