The narrative a man maintains about himself is bound by his memories, and a man’s memories is bound by his narrative. The narrative is a subjective mess that a man’s memories are disfigured and jumbled around in disarray in order to make sense of. The whole thing is in this insistence on holding on to these narratives that society places its valuation. The narratives are the stories that make up the story of society, and the story of society is the stuff of history, and blockbuster hits at the cinema. The problem isn’t in playing out the outward narrative but in believing in it inwardly, and so tying one’s emotional integrity onto this flimsy piece of fiction. The truth is that none of these narratives matter in objective reality and in this valid point lies the freedom of not having to dread the world and its unfathomable patterns. The story of average Joe does not need to weigh in so heavily and needlessly burden the creature that so happens to be alive in this moment of existence. Underneath the rags of this narrative lies a plain, ordinary, but real person who has the opportunity to live an honest minute or two simply witnessing the passing seconds.