The hanged man came to me in a dream, bent at the knee and bathed in the cold light of the snow moon. It was a Tuesday. Vanilla-scented cigar smoke rose from the halo above his head and I woke suddenly, traipsing blanketed onto the balcony to watch the penumbral lunar eclipse. Here comes death again on his white horse made of sticks.
We are all storytellers, editing and re-editing until the story sounds right. The lines between truth and fiction are very blurred boundaries and nothing is true. Some things are less false than others – but there are no perfect truths. This week I told myself several different stories.
Here’s one: in the last few months I have stopped drinking entirely, lost 8kg, presented three conference papers, spent a lot of much-needed time with family and friends, and moved into a beautiful new apartment with one of my best friends. The world is a good place, one of abundance and joy.
Here’s another: I haven’t been working hard enough and sometimes I wake up to long, dark cat-like creatures crawling up the walls of my bedroom. I can’t tell where the dream stops and reality begins again. I fell in love with someone I shouldn’t have and now my body is a snow globe made of thin glass, glittered insides refracting absence and void across the ceiling of my stomach.
Neither story is less false than the other. Everything is a matter of narration. You are the editor of your own fragile world. What kinds of stories will you tell?