I’ve been seeing a life editor. Nothing’s wrong really. My life is fine; I just don’t want to miss it. I don’t want to merely experience a cliché; I want to truly live my life.
My life editor, Annie, doesn’t help me progress in my career or in my personal relationships. She helps with my relationship with myself and the nature of human existence. She edits out the crap and inserts the essential.
This sounds like a spiritual thing. It’s not. It’s hard-nosed and practical.
Throughout the day, I remind myself of the nature of things. I keep a perspective. This is all passing, temporary and grasping is futile—and ultimately unsatisfying. I simply enjoy the passage of time.
I watch the world and make up stories about what I see. Man is a storytelling animal and I am a man. So that’s what I do. Stories, or at least good stories need editing and Annie make it all work. She’s a walking blue pencil.
Annie says imagination isn’t real, but it’s as important as reality. To exercise imagination is essential to experiencing fully.
I wish you could meet Annie. She’s quite striking, angular, strong and yet her presence isn’t harsh—its gentle and reassuring. We go through the city together and she prods me with questions.
“Randall, that man with the hat, what is his name? Where is he going?” And I describe his life and his current activities in great detail. I pretend to know.
She helps me see the world clearly, fill in the gaps and have rich fantasies as well.
Last weekend, I climbed a castle wall and carried away—no, rescued—a princess. We entered my kingdom and tore off each other’s clothes and made passionate love. Quite a fantasy, I think. But I’m not sure.