The little voice in my head told me to start from the beginning, because, it said, this story was for you, not for me.
I didn’t quite care. This is my story.
“They don’t know where or when the beginning is”, the Voice insisted, “they don’t know you at all.”
And I get it, I understand this pretty well. You’re out there, reading this… thing that maybe a story, and maybe something else. And it’s supposed to have some sort of structure, right? Something with normality, then conflict, strife, even. And then perhaps a roaring crescendo of frenetic and daring acts of valiance that eventually see me, the hero, victorious. Isn’t that how most stories go?
But, here’s the thing: life doesn’t work that way. Life has no script, no process, no formula. Life just… happens. One day you’re enjoying the taste of ice cream, the next you’re lying in the street, unable to move because something… small, microscopic even, has been making its way through your body, growing bigger over the years, collecting little bits and pieces of your history, weaving them into a new story of cells and fat and biological things the doctors later identify as “typical causes” and wandering so perfectly aimlessly that it found the absolute precise place to cause a stroke.
Is there a script? Did the single rogue cell have some sort of predestined part in the saga you call your life? Maybe, maybe not. No one knows for sure. But this is life, and somehow, this thing whose existence you weren’t aware of is now front and center, and it’s all that matters, for now. And is this the end? Is this the strife? Or does this become the new normal and, working backwards, turn tragedy into a twist in the tale.
But that’s not my story. That’s just me going off on a tangent and having a dialogue with the Voice in my head asking me to tell the story. Properly. Correctly.
But we have no beginning to properly begin from; we must find a place that has the right… rightness to anchor ourselves.
And so we find ourselves in the middle of the street, pushing through a mass of people gathered around someone who had dropped suddenly in the midday heat and is currently unconscious.
We find ourselves staring, asking questions - in hushed tones - to the people around us as everyone who knew nothing about what to do in situations like this explained loudly what must be done in situations like this. And the person is pushed and prodded and stripped of his shirt and fanned with a newspaper and laid on his side and tongue inspected and shoulders gently shaken in the hopes that he will stir ceremoniously to life and people will gasp and sigh and cluck their tongues and move on with their lives, having gotten a new story to be retold and embellished beyond belief until it’s the legend of the man who died in the street and rose again after five minutes.
We find ourselves sighing with relief and clucking our tongue as the man stirs to life.
It is a hot day, and the crowd is dispersing, the man having fled on a boda-boda nervously clutching an envelope after profusely apolothanking everyone.
His wallet was missing, of course, because this is a story about life and life happens, sometimes helped along by a woman who exits the scene a little too quickly muttering something about unattended wares.
Each person slowly walks away with their own version of events, already embellished with little bits about eating heavy meals and not drinking enough water and others reflecting – loudly – on their own mortality and how they must eat chicken and drink beer tonight because life is short.
It is a very hot day, and the restaurant on the other side of the street is quaint and lovely and the very cool airconditioned breeze that welcomes us also gives us a quick moment of gratitude for the small things.
And the man behind the counter smiles and all the years of standing behind counters smiling at people waltzing in and out on hot days shows with the greying hair of a life lived a little too long and stories etched into creases of skin like long, dark words on worn parchment.
“Ice cream, please. And some water.” I am hungry and it’s going to be a long day, and maybe I should eat a proper meal but I just wanted an ice cream.
My wallet is missing.
Of course. Everyone is looking for an opportunity, even if someone is lying on the streets near death.
We find ourselves back in the searing heat and someone is shaking us, asking us if we’re okay and I can’t find the envelope I had with me.
“We can’t stop here! You haven’t started the right way and now you’re suddenly ending?” The Voice is loud and angry and you know what? I don’t quite care; this is my story and if you want to read it, you’re going to have to come back.
Because this is life and maybe, just maybe, there is something on the other side of the page…