Marcel Proust: He was determined to tell a story in great detail as the good writer that he was. Being eloquent in his recounting the tale of a life from earliest times to ..well, as much of it as possible. Many who read his work get the impression the life being narrated is his own. So I drew great pleasure from his comment that it was all fiction.
I feel this way about the story I am part of. I have created my legacy in my mind and that is mostly personal narrative, only because truth is only an ideal and as such is not knowable. Like a man who comes out of unconsciousness and learns second hand of how he had an accident or blow to the head or whatever. In my case near fatal events while riding bicycle. We are not always aware of what the role is we are playing in life. I like to be cognizant of what is going on around me but I will be the first to admit there are times I do not know where the story is leading. If I suddenly were transported onto the set of a sitcom and had no lines rehearsed, and no idea who the other actors were, I would not be any less awkward.
It has been said that truth is stranger than fiction. What is truth. What is real. What we observe with our eyes and register in our heads. I have to ask, are our facilities for apprehending the world true. We can go through the history of philosophy and the scientific studies that show parts of the brain being active during various activities, but where in all of this research is reality? Where is the I, that sees.
In the moments shared we may initiate nudges or feel the seemingly less perceptible nudges of others to veer a certain way, to drag a topic Kicking and screaming towards an (un?)-natural direction, we are not computer programs operating in a virtual environment, but we think and act in characteristic ways. It can be said that the identity of a human being, at any point in time, is a function of how their program interacts with the reality they are found to be in.
When things happen, it is by intention or as a consequence of human influences, human made forces coming into play, forces we cannot always control. We can also attempt to influence the programming of other individuals to make interactions with them more predictable. We can even alter the perception of what has actually been observed to have happened. You might have heard the saying "repeat a lie enough and people will start to believe it.
What is to be done with / about the imperfections? You and I might be likened to the small routines that comprise the bigger picture. Yes, there is a purpose that is much bigger than we can ascertain, and it is not rocket science although it includes all the activities people engage in. We exist. That existence might mean something different to each individual regardless of how much someone might like to think of themselves in terms of their group memberships.
When a person directs their focus towards fitting in they are assimilating and handing in their individuality in a sort of surrender to perceived higher forces allowing themselves to be controlled by a superego. They give up thinking for themselves.
Proust understood how triggers worked, like how the smell of a biscuit could recall memories of events in which those sensations were previously registered. He was said to be a great writer since he is known best for his literary contributions, but to me he did not achieve greatness in his work. I felt no indication from his novel that things were ever great. Any pain that he might have experienced seemed proof to him anyway, that he was alive.
