The Unfolding Story

Nocturnal writing escapades are becoming something of a habit. It seems to take an entire day for the reflective part of my consciousness to find it’s way from the labyrinth, pull up a comfy chair, and start talking to anybody that might listen.

Sometimes I have a lot to write, and sometimes very little. It very much depends on events of the day, I suppose – for the last year “adventure” has been somewhat thin on the ground. Life has been quiet.

I’ve often made sense of life by likening it to a “choose your own adventure” book – where you make decisions throughout each day, and they result in turning to given pages where the immediate future is foretold. While it’s a nice idea, I’m not sure it always works. The real world seems to involve far more unpredictability that any scripted story could engineer. Perhaps the chaos is a natural product of everybody turning their pages at the same time.

Sometimes you arrive on the same page as somebody else, and discover each other through the stories of the days that follow. The plot for chapters to come is rewritten – shaped by nothing more than each other’s presence. It’s all rather marvellous.



This morning the vast internet machinery heaved the minute hand of an invisible clock forwards another minute, and filled the bedroom with one of the London radio stations. After a few minutes drifting between asleep and awake, my body clock finally gained some traction, and swung legs out of the bedclothes – planting feet on the floor below, ready to begin another day.

There’s a tremendous sense that each day has become “another day” at the moment – unravelling the future like a worn carpet I’ve seen before. There’s a flickering urge to somehow make today better than yesterday, but I’m not quite sure how to go about it, or what “better” really means.

While writing, the clock continues ticking. The planet continues revolving. Carpets continue to unfurl – mapping different directions the day might take. It seems that indecision is not an option – if we retrace steps, the junctions we return to are not as they once were.

If only the world had a reset button from time to time. A chance to start again – to re-invent the recent past. Of course no such thing exists, so we make the best of our situation, we look forwards, and we continue putting one foot in front of the other – marching in step with the ticking of the clock.

What if we could weave our own carpet though – construct a new path – choosing our destiny rather than leaving it to fate? Does fate exist, or is it a convenient construct to soften the consequences of indecision?

I think I’ll continue forwards, and shake my fist towards the machinery of the universe from time to time – pretending I have some say in the way my story unfolds – pretending I might introduce at least a little order among the chaos and mayhem.