Twitter sparks things. Tonight it sparked this thought: that most people don’t feel the story of their lives is worth telling, that the story of what is ordinary is not anything in which anyone could have any interest. It occurred to me that I don’t believe in the existence of the ordinary.

I used to, and I used to firmly place myself in that category. I still, to this day, disavow compliments with the phrase “I’m only me,” implying that I am nothing extraordinary. I realised tonight, however, that I’ve discarded the idea of “ordinary” as fallacious. Maybe this marks me as an idealist, who knows? Maybe it means I’m finally moulding myself into the shape I want to be. If you want to be a storyteller, after all, it’s fairly essential that you learn to recognise stories.

I never considered my life to be anything extraordinary. The more I think on it, however, the more I realise that it’s had extraordinary moments, and that nobody’s life is comprised of more than that. Some people have more of those moments than others, to be sure. Some people go out and create those moments for themselves, seize upon events around them and turn them into something mad and amazing; some people have those moments happen to them without their conscious interference, victims of caprice and happenstance. But all of us have them, to some degree or another, and it’s those moments that are worth telling. It’s those moments that make a life’s story interesting enough to be told.

My life could be a novel. Parts of it would have to be excised, of course; parts emphasised or embellished, but the story so far isn’t as boring as I used to believe.

Food for thought.

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