We humans tell stories. All of us. Every day.
It’s as natural as breathing. We can’t not.
Our stories aren’t fiction in the literary sense. So, not “Harry Potter” or “Little Women.”
They’re not non-fiction, either. They’re internal narratives we craft to make sense of events, to describe the behavior of ourselves and others, and to explain the unexplainable.
People in every culture tell origin stories, their “why we’re here” myths.
Nations tell origin stories, also partly mythical. In versions of ours, we’re the home of free, the shining light on a hill, a melting pot.
LSU fans tell a story about a recent football game. Clemson fans frame a different story.
Republicans and Democrats tell stories about the president. He’s the little guy’s champion shaking up a stony status quo. Or a crude and ignorant narcissist who doesn’t care about people and policy.
Stars didn’t arrange themselves purposefully into constellations. Humans saw patterns in the night sky and told stories about them.
Our stories are the constellations of our minds – fully present and meaningful, but not always objectively true.
Love stories? Read more
Professor Socks schools the rube
