Turtles All The Way Down

ONE
At the time I first realized I might be fictional,
my weekdays were spent at a publicly funded institution on the north side of Indianapolis called White River High School,
where I was required to eat lunch at a particular time—between 12:37 P.M. and 1:14 P.M.—
by forces so much larger than myself that I couldn’t even begin to identify them.
If those forces had given me a different lunch period,
or if the tablemates who helped author my fate had chosen a different topic of conversation that September day,
I would’ve met a different end—or at least a different middle.
But I was beginning to learn that your life is a story told about you, not one that you tell.
Of course, you pretend to be the author. You have to.
You think, I now choose to go to lunch, when that monotone beep rings from on high at 12:37.
But really, the bell decides. You think you’re the painter, but you’re the canvas.
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