Author: J.P. Pressley

Most people think that an active life makes for the best stories. They’re wrong, for the most part at least. Sure, others may have all these great stories to tell of you and your many deeds, but you, the one who actually experienced the totality of everything, you’ll hardly be able to string together a coherent sentence about these things. After all, how can you revel in stories of your experiences if you don’t even remember experiencing them in the first place?

Granted, some things you’ll never forget. Your first major injury, the first time you should’ve died, the first time you kill a being—human, alien, or otherwise—these things stay with you. Hell, if you’re lucky, you’ll even remember your first, first kiss. But that’s about it. All those other kisses? The other bodies you put in the dirt? Your being beaten good as dead, only to breathe once more? What’s to separate any one of those instances from the dozens of others?


Then again, maybe such an active life truly does make for the best stories, so long as you’re not telling them. In the audience, honestly unsure as to how things turnout, these stories then make for the most immersive experience you’ve ever had. For as the story unfolds, so does your memory. And you get to experience the totality of your life—every miraculous triumph, every reckless action, and every consequence in-between—for a second time.