Maybe it is something that happens each October. Maybe, too, it is simply a matter of an old man reminiscing about how quickly time flies and how this reality brought him to take stock of his life. Whatever is going on, this past week has caused the notion of story to rise to the top of our life’s cooking-pot. I do not know, but our extremely beautiful autumn makes me think of story-writing, of how our days might be constructing a narrative with a distinct flow having its twists and turns, of course, but always that undercurrent of continuity and the serious passing of time.

Each day is unique, yet each day is still similar to the one before. In an interesting way each day is like each one of us: new and fresh, but quite similar to the many other humans around us. Sometimes we might work to be different, but at a certain level we still are just like other human beings. Our personal stories are following a rather common script, so no matter how different we might see ourselves, we still fit in. We are part of the groups we identify with.

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