People often carry a story about who we are.
Over time that story becomes familiar to them,
like a window they keep pointing toward,
certain that if we would only look there,
we would see what they see.
For a long time I tried.
But the view waiting for me was something else —
beyond what had been arranged,
beyond the shadows on the wall.
A life cannot be lived inside someone else’s story.
Others may tell a story about me.
It is simply not the one I am living.
— a reflection by Corvalva
Return to You Don’t Know Me.
Notice what shifts.