It looks like we’re going to have rain today.
It’s a shame. It’s so warm out, it would be nice to sit in the sun, but there is none.
Sometimes I have this overwhelming feeling that I am writing my own story…
you know, the whole, author of my own life thing?
Sometimes I sense that it is literally true…
and if that is the case, I sit here saying to myself, ‘I am writing a really bad story’, and asking myself, ‘Why?’
Now, obviously my story is not really, really, bad. Lots of people have terrible, horrible, stories… the people in the mid-east being tortured, beheaded, sold into slavery… who’s writing their stories?
But like I said, there are just some things that seem to say to me that I am creating my story, and I wonder why did I write it with heartache? with illness? with loss? Where is my happy ending? 😀
Are we all the authors of our own lives? Do we create our reality?