This is life

Although there have been rumours that we are at the end of history, I believe that such a conviction is self-indulgent. It doesn't take into account the futility of the ammount of time we have in which we can call ourselves more or less in charge of our own lifes, let alone the process of defining our history. This is not the end, no, we are in the middle of it. And if you like it or not, that's the only place where we will ever be.
And so am I, desperately reflecting on a memory of a slice of my life, trying to get a narrative out of it, with the good old moral, comic side stories and the winning or waning of the main guy. But it just ain't that way. It's fighting the chaos, it's making do. Time slips, skids, stops, slides, floats. Memories fade, change, resurface, rewind.
I look for the perspective that shows me everything, but find that the sun blinds me or fog has come onto the lands. It's ok. It will always be that way.