The hall of biographies is a great and terrible thing. It exists outside of time and space, never and forever. All its works written at the dawn of time, and yet there on the shelf sits your own life; complete in two-hundred slightly dusty pages. The hall receives few visitors; your life fewer still – but there it is in your hands; laid out a chapter at a time.
Not all of it of course – but all of it that matters. You skim through, finding incidents from your past you are surprised to see included. Surprised, that is, until you see the way the future unfolds – then the narrative arcs of your life become clear. Those seemingly meaningless moments stand as portents, foundations for the significances to come.
And you know, then, what you are supposed to do, what you are supposed to become, what is supposed to be. And you live your life with this knowledge, and it colours your every action, your every choice. And not once do you stop to consider that the flow your biography was dictated not by importance, or significance, but by the rules of narrative that have stood largely unchanged for thousands of years. You discard sub-plots and complexities that could not fit in 200 pages, without ever really knowing why.
And you never question how it could be that your story was already written before it even began.