Prompt: Aldous Huxley said your memories are your personal literature. What story are you telling yourself today?
Isn’t it sad?
I don’t have anything noteworthy to include here. My personal literature, if you read it, is a boring historical record from birth to current existence. It is a mere existence. I have no great tragedy. I don’t have a crippling disease, nor does any of my family (*knock on wood*). I’ve never had my heart filled with so much emotion that it hurt. I’ve never had my heart broken. I’ve never gone bungee jumping (I’ve gone ziplining, but I doubt that’s more exciting).
By Hollywood blockbuster standards, my life is a dud.
And I’m okay with it. I don’t live in Hollywood anyway. 🙂