My first mornings... storyboards

Why write me? How do you write to me? Two questions have exhausted me to the point of getting lost, astonished, and disappearing. Perhaps the stories we tell about ourselves and others are the only way to escape death? Our stories enable us to restrain our inner monsters and defeat them through writing. Every writing is a victory over a painful fate or repelling an impossible monster. Our narratives that we tell do not express life, but rather are life itself. We live as a narrative and die as a narrative. Contrary to the words of the existentialists who said of the primacy of existence over essence, the truth of life confirms that our narratives precede our existence on the one hand and are immanent to it on the other hand. All the stories of the past live in our souls from our birth until our departure from this world. Narrative is our river. The existential flows deep in the course of our veins, in the cells of our bodies and under the pores of our skin, and in the end we become a memory, so our narratives remain our story after us. What remains is our renewed memory through which we conquer annihilation and nothingness.