Storyteller’s Remorse

I think I failed in my job as a storyteller. While I am delighted that everyone really enjoyed my tale about suspending the old guy at Folsom, I fear that I have not done the event justice. Sure, I am very flattered and touched that so many of you commented so positively and commended me for my actions; however while my own personal narcissism loves the praise, I am not the hero of this tale.

The hero of this tale was the old guy.

I think what made the event so memorable for me, and for the others who were there, was not that I granted someone’s dying wish. Rather, that someone facing their death would choose to go out and peruse all the things they have denied themselves their whole lives. Sure, we all are going to die someday but this guy’s “someday” is a bit sooner than most. In fact I’m pretty sure the grim reaper already has him penciled into his day planner. What kicks my ass is this. How does he choose to write this, the last chapter of his life? Not by balling up and hiding, not by shaking his fist in anger at the gods and anyone else who he perceives as having done him wrong, not by spending his final months locked in some bitter and family dividing debate? No, he chose to stand up, take risks and live.

I’m just a guy who is good with rope, he was the hero.

Makes you wonder, if you are given the chance to consciously write the last chapter of the book of your life. What kind of story would it be?