“And when the universe has finished exploding all the stars will slow down, like a ball that has been thrown into the air, and they will come to a halt and they will all begin to fall towards the center of the universe again.
And then there will be nothing to stop us from seeing all the stars in the world because they will all be moving towards us, gradually faster and faster, and we will know that the world is going to end soon because when we look up into the sky at night there will be no darkness, just the blazing light of billions and billions of stars, all falling.”
― Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night Time
The stories I tell myself hold a powerful sway over my memories, behaviors, beliefs, and values. Collectively, these stories are telling me who I am. Forget my physical body, it’s not the essence of what I am. Forget my blood, bones, muscles, fat and genes and cells. They’re not what I am. Rather instead, I am my stories, the accumulation of experiences that I have fashioned into my own epic, sweeping narrative. I am the events and people and places to which I have assigned symbolic meaning.
Oh, the drama of it all.
In the end no one really wants to hear how bad traffic was for you on the way to work or how every other person pulled out in front of you.
In December 2004, Scientific American Life published an article entitled The Tyranny of Choice. It argued that constantly being surrounded by indistinguishable everyday options is slowing us down. It’s overloading our minds and paralyzing us. It’s making us miserable. If you’ve ever spent an evening listlessly scrolling through Netflix’s infinite library, you’ll know that the Tyranny of Choice is painfully real.