The stories we tell ourselves

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live." - Joan Didion, in The White Album

I remember reading The White Album back in 2016. It was some time ago now; I was 19 then, serving out my mandatory conscription like every other guy out there. I recall applying for college at that time; I recall a sense of optimism, a muted, buzzing sense of expectation, pregnant with hope and possibilities. The world seemed just within reach - grasp at it with sufficient vigor, and you could get everything you might want. I was 19 then; how time flies by. 

I remember reading The White Album, and by extension, this passage - "we tell ourselves stories in order to live". It stuck with me for a time - and I came to be reminded of it recently. 

It seems trite, somehow; self-evident - of course we tell ourselves stories to make sense of the world; it's how we interpret so many discrete, individually meaningless data points to form something other than noise, something that makes sense to us. But more than that: stories aren't just retrospective, they're how we see the future, and how we tell ourselves that we're on a path somewhere, and everything we've done so far, every ounce of sweat and blood was not in vain, but in service of a greater goal, or a destiny that lies in wait, if only we persist. 

In other words, stories help us understand the past, and remain hopeful of the future.

More than that, we want to believe the stories and the movies, because they tell us that one grand gesture can save us from doom; can win over the girl; can win the war. That everything eventually boils down to a quick, clean, titanic struggle of good versus bad, and good overcomes all. We need stories because it masks over the monotony and pointlessness of the day-to-day, the painful, everyday humdrum that is showing up, and doing the right thing, over and over; and reduces it to one moment of moral clarity and personal strength. 

Stories grant us a sense of clarity, and provide color to an otherwise tedious world.

But here's the problem: stories are misleading. What happens when the facts contradict the story we've been telling ourselves? What happens when the hopes we once held close to our hearts, that everything is building towards a greater destiny, falls apart, unattainable, and beyond reach? What happens when the grand gesture fails to win the girl? We are then pushed against ourselves; either we cling on to our stories, our inner romantics, and refuse to fact the facts; or we are forced to tear ourselves away from our beloved, our crutch that made the world comprehensible and full of hope. 

If the infinite, infinitesimal things that happened to us didn't happen for a reason, then what is the point of it all? Why did we live through all of that? With our narratives ripped away, then, we find ourselves struggling with nihilism and hopelessness.

We want to believe the stories - we do! In the corner of my heart, I'm a romantic, still. I want to believe in true love, or our exceptionalism, or more grandiosely, our destiny. We want to believe that our lives have meaning; that we're not all just playthings of an uncaring god. 

We must resist that temptation, however. Stories, at their heart, are a heuristic, a vacuous simplification we tell ourselves that, more often than not, fall apart, hollow, and dessicated. They are at best, palliative, a soothing balm on necrotic flesh. We do ourselves no favour by embracing the morphine and the poppy flower.

What is the alternative then? How do we grapple with the idea that we are, in fact, so very small, and that life works in so many mysterious ways beyond our ability to fathom?

I find that the answer lies in being process oriented  - we may not be able to understand individual events, or control outcomes, but we can strive for excellence in our domains of control. In coming to terms with the randomness, with our powerlessness, we must accept it with a sort of empowered surrender - we ought not to build our dreams around hopes of achievement, nor seek to make sense of our journey thus far, for these things are beyond our control. We should seek excellence only in process, in doing our best.

There's another quote that I really like: 

'Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.'

I think Macbeth was on to something - nihilism rings true to me, but the answer is not to wring our hands in fear or apprehension. I submit that we should embrace process, as the only things we can control in an uncaring world.