I tend towards being naturally verbose. I’m a chatty Kathy. I’m almost always willing to talk about whatever you wanna throw at me, but sometimes I find myself repetitively telling the same stories, to new friends, to old friends (in excess?). I used to just blow them off as being silly tidbits of nostalgia, but I’ve been examining that view recently.
Sometimes they’re trivial stories, like how my basset hound got annoyed with my grandma’s chihuahua that one time, so he proceeded to lift up his leg & pee on him. Sometimes they define us, like the time I climbed that pyramid or the first time I ever took acid.
The stories, no matter how much or how little they say about our lives, are our own personal collection of mythology. Dripping in archetypes & patterns they are made of the same stuff as dreams & cultural myths. Those moments we repeat incessantly can become tools for freedom when we look for the questions & patterns in them.
Why do I tell this? Who am I telling this to? What do I want them to know about me? What impression/projection am I trying to convey? How does this story compare to my dreams? To society? To ancient myth?
How do our stories define us? How do they limit us or keep us stuck in the past, or how can they free us?