A slip In Random Chance

What is this thing called life, are we all just here by random chance. Were we placed her for a life of servitude or some experiment just to see the outcome. How can we define life, is it the choices that we make, the pain that’s within all of us. Is it the building blocks that were set for us when we were young, the obstacles that our society needs to build to make a stronger person? 

For me its none of them, to me life is about the story.

We all have a story the difference is how the story was told. Some are harder then most, some of us pass threw life never really knowing what choices and consequences mean. Some are too short and really never get a chance to experience it, but even those souls that were taken short still had a story. They may live through another but the story is always the same.  They all have a beginning middle and an end. And its how we present the story so the ones who never made a chance to create theirs has a chance to live on in the imagination of the one who is listening.

My story is not that much different from others, my sadness and growth are a part of life, survival and determination is something every human needs to fully understand what life is about. To be able to feel emotions, to fall in love, to know what it feels like to truly feel alone. Without these things we are nothing more then mechanics running threw this life in a never ending repetitive motion. Waking to fall asleep, living just to die. We seem Afraid to show emotion incase that chance that we might have to feel the pain. But then what is life without pain, how can we say we are truly alive if we are afraid of living it. How can we wake if there is nothing to be able to gain?

In my world I have lived two lives, one of reality and one of fantasy. The reality is the cold brutal truth; the other is a wildness of loneliness and confusion. Its what’s separates the two that makes this story, to be able to see clear past the pain and the trees. To know that without emotion we would never care for another, or hold love for ourselves.

As man we have fabricated our stories so the ones who are telling them seem to be the hero. Changing history so it sounds better to the listener, to make mountains out of molehills to make murders into martyrs. This story will not be fabricated; you will come with me on this walk of pain and of exploration threw the wilderness and the concrete jungles. You will feel the troubles and my fears, my worries and my love. I am giving you my life so you can see that even thou we all are of different background colors or beliefs, that deep down we are all the same. That the story is the solid ground that holds us together, and even thou we keep pulling ourselves away from each other, we need each other most of all. Our world is a tree and our stories are the leaves, each one different but really they are the same. Without even one we would be left vulnerable and truly understand what it means to be left alone.