I don't believe in stories. I don't believe in the past. I don't define myself by any of the distortions my mind may furnish.
The only past of relevance is the one that seeps into the present, as the present.
I have no story, for I need none. I have a past that I can read in the present.
I'm not what I can remember myself to be. I am not what I can perceive myself to be. What one needs about the past, the present will offer.
The attachment to the past binds us to what we were, roots us to the parameters of our interpretations of it.
We are not what we were. We are not what we are. We are what we can become.
No representation can ever do the whole justice. Our verbal tools are insufficient. Our mental models are mere conveniences. And our sensory perceptions are nothing but the best picture we can render.
A joke begins with a warning to alert us of its nature, it is followed by a setup, and completed by a punchline.
The punchline can only throw the worldview of the setup on its head if we are seduced into obeying its boundaries by believing it's real.
All jokes live on the distorted worldview of their setup. And every distorted worldview carries a punchline within.
The punchline draws our attention to our errors in judgement by blowing open the boundaries of the setup. That is the laughter of liberation, the jolt of humor, and the expression of euphoria.
Our senses are inadequate to perceive it all. Our concepts and models are inadequate to make it all. Our linear word games are inadequate to describe it all.
All perceptions are sensory distortions of reality. All ideas are conceptual distortions of reality. All stories are linear distortions of reality.
Every story begins with the forgotten introductory whisper of 'I have a joke for you'.
When we forget this, we fail to see the absurdity of our blind acceptance of its assumptions and distortions.
When we forget that, we lose the playful freedom of experiencing the vast nature of reality.
When we forget that, we are lost in its distortions. Living through the limited lens of our crude mental tools, and making those limitations our own.
The emotional safety our stories provide is as fragile as a soap bubble. Maybe it's not quite living a lie if one is oblivious, but it is certainly living an illusion to presume one's existence in the first half of an unfinished joke.
I don't have story. I have a few jokes. Some of them with punchlines. And many others where I'm still raptly listening to the unfolding of its fictive drama to reach its absurd conclusion.
Every story told with limited repertoire of mind is but a distortion and thus the setup to a joke. The reality it suggests is just as fragile as that of a joke.
You might not know the punchline yet. So I curiously interact with its elements, freely and playfully. Why?