The moment a story is told, it loses authenticity. No matter how many perspectives are used to tell the story, there will always be one missing. Thus, a story can never be truthful, even to itself.

     Which is probably why I always dread telling any story at all. Not just stories, but also things that had happened: explanations, descriptions, justifications. I don’t know why I ever bothered, or if anyone ever bothered at all. What’s the point? It’s scientifically impossible to tell the full story. Academically, even missing one perspective risks the reputation of being biased. But then aren’t we all used to being biased in reality?

     I find myself envying those who are bold enough to say ‘this is my story’ with a conviction as if it’s the surest thing in the world, without a shadow of doubt. Me, I always imagine someone jumping out while I tell a story, ‘ Aha! That’s not really how it happened. You are just telling it from your point of view. There are other sides to a story.’ I love those words: conviction, certainty, sureness. I can never tell a story in that manner. When I tell a story it’s always timid, hesitant, unsure, uncertain, uncomfortable, pretty much any word you can put ‘un’ in front of.

     So I gave up. Sometimes it’s a relief to be able to give up, to let go, especially when it’s something you are not good at in the first place. To accept that there’s a fundamental flaw in your story-telling as real as the smell of freshly-cut grass or the silence of the snow.

     Perhaps that’s how journals were invented. Well, not exactly invented because obviously no one invented journals. Perhaps that’s how journals came along in the first place. 

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