We were all heading for each other on a collision course, no matter what. Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.

It's as if someone vacuumed up the horizon while we were looking the other way.

Or maybe a person is just made up of a lot of peopleMaybe we’re accumulating these new selves all the time. Hauling them in as we make choices, good and bad, as we screw up, step up, lose our minds, find our minds, fall apart, fall in love, as we grieve, grow, retreat from the world, dive into the world, as we make things, as we break things.

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

This is our story to tell. You’d think for all the reading I do, I would have thought about this before, but I haven’t. I’ve never once thought about the interpretative, the story telling aspect of life, of my life. I always felt like I was in a story, yes, but not like I was the author of it, or like I had any say in its telling whatsoever.

It's such a colossal effort not to be haunted by what's lost, but to be enchanted by what was.

The Color Of Extraordinary.