Stories. I have a rather weird habit of narrating my daily actions in my head as if they were a story – “She walked out to feed the horses” or “She curled up on her bed with her toy in her arms.” Sometimes the thoughts are deliberate, but more often than not they’re just floating around in the back of my head, rather subconsciously.
Each day is a story. There’s a beginning and an ending. More likely than not, there’s some climax – good or bad – to the day. Maybe the story wouldn’t be interesting enough to write down; and then again maybe it would be. But apparently it’s interesting enough to be worth living because, you know what, I live it. Every single day, I live a new story.
Less than a year ago, my sister Leah and I were camped on her dorm room floor, snuggled up in blankets and pillows with microwaveable Chinese food in hand, watching Frozen on my sister’s laptop. Two nights in a row — we couldn’t get enough of that movie. For the rest of the year, we affectionately referred to one another as Olaf (her) and Sven (me).