The unfortunate reality of real life is that not everything climaxes. This is something I’ve gradually come to realize, first with a sense of dread and then with a begrudging acceptance. They say (and who “they” are in this saying isn’t really relevant) that ignorance is bliss. There can be no greater proof than the dreams we have as young men and women. We blissfully believe that our lives grow upward in height and importance, that we are all main characters in a great story. For some, we populate a Hollywood drama. For others, it is a Shakespearean romance. We justify that those who fleetingly enter in and out of our stories are nothing but minor characters, bullet points that exist to move the plot forward. Some characters intersect their stories with our own just for exposition while others are pigeon-holed into merely a cameo appearance. We believe that we write our own stories when we are ultimately the victims of inconsequence or irrelevance. Despite our belief that we control the outcome of our future, the truth is that ours, like most great stories, is one that writes itself. In a way our lives are a screenplay in the midst of the first draft. As the movie goes on, we have an idea of the main players. There’s a hero, a villain, complications, and what we would consider as the “end” of the story is either achieving a goal (get the girl, get the job) or our inevitable death. We move along at a brisk place when suddenly, through no fault of our own, the love interest abruptly leaves the story. We justify this by saying “well, she wasn’t a main character anyways.” It’s a comforting thought but the implication is arrogant as hell. The truth is this is a screenplay that can only be edited forward. Even after re-reading the beginning of the story and wanting to change dialogue or make your main character more sympathetic, it can’t be done. Your pen can’t go backwards. What would be the point anyways? Your story is organic, and in all honesty you aren’t even the one writing it.