Sometimes it’s as if reality is right in front of me but just out of reach. It’s the white rabbit, and I’m Alice—and I can’t quite keep up with the skittish animal determined to flee my reach. It’s a never-ending race through rose bushes and brambles, trying not to snag my clothes on any thorns as I run far faster than my body can handle but still too slowly to reach my prey. It’s exhausting, it’s frustrating, it’s maddening. And if I stop to let myself really look at the situation, I see that I am truly mad. Whether from the chase or the fear or just my natural fate, I am completely mad. Mad as a hatter. And mad as hell.
And once I let myself reach that conclusion, it’s like the Earth moves from under me. Either that or my center of gravity shifts wildly off its axis. I can no longer tell which way is up and which way is down. My wits are scattered, and I don’t have the time, energy, or desire to pick up all the marbles on the ground. All I know is that I’m tired, so tired. And sometimes I care too much and sometimes I barely give a crap. Sometimes the rain falls up and sometimes it falls down. If this isn’t wonderland, then where the hell am I? I can’t even pretend to know.
So that’s where I am now. This is where the story begins…or ends. Depending on which way you look at it. In real life, there’s no story arch. There’s no real way to tell if you’re in your rising action or falling action, the climax of something big or the near the cusp of a denouement. The universe doesn’t design human lives in terms of story archs, does it? Or if it does, the story is so big, so detailed, that our tiny part is hard to separate from the rest of the giant tome. I wonder if, one day, we ever get a chance to look at that book. Would an eternity even be enough time to read the story of the history of the entire universe? Would it be a tragedy, a comedy, a satire?