Sublime

as if he, too, might have another hundred years or two to document what time hides forever in plain sight.

How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but—mainly—to ourselves.

I found out early that you can throw yourself away, missing what you’ve lost.