I never saw Christ’s alleged miracles.
There is no business which exists solely to do good, and no businessmen who are solely motivated by benevolence.
Batman doesn’t exist.
But my amygdala cries out for something to believe in, something to trust.
So I choose stories.
Storytellers have their own motivations, and Orwell defined them as well as anyone else can. Stories are always told from a perspective, they do not pretend to objectivity or altruism, and they always bear the bias of their creators. They can be trusted to be untrustworthy. You can count on them to elude you by ending, by twisting out of your grasp, or instead to reveal themselves to you in unrelated moments, long after you thought them consigned to the past.
But stories are how we think, remember, articulate, comprehend. Stories are our lifeblood, the swiss army knife with which we whittle experience into… whatever we need to.
Without stories we have nothing to grab on to except each other. And we’re worth more to each other than desperate grabbing, right?