Life, in all its messy, magnificent glory, often feels like a long-running sitcom — except the jokes aren’t always funny, and the laugh track is broken. We march through it with the sincere hope that we’re heading somewhere meaningful, only to frequently trip over our own expectations and land face-first in a puddle of, “Oh no, not this again.”
Let me take you back to a magical vacation I once had — oh yes, that one. The honeymoon.
We were in the Alps, hand-in-hand, the cold air crisp against my skin, hearts full, minds clear, and not a single email in sight. The sun kissed the snowy peaks just right, and even my usually rebellious hair obeyed the elements for once. Life wasn’t just good—it was singing in four-part harmony with a mountain choir. We ate fondue, laughed until our cheeks hurt, and silently, I marveled at how lucky I was—to be here, to be in love, to be alive... with her. I was beaming. This. This is what it’s all about. It wasn’t just a vacation—it was a chapter from a fairy tale, personally signed by the universe itself.
Fast forward a few years.
The love story took a turn. Not the poetic kind—more like a plot twist written by a caffeinated soap opera intern. The sweet, affectionate partner became... let’s say, passionately disagreeable. Words I didn’t think she knew, she suddenly used .. fluently, and in all caps.
We broke up.
It was messy, loud, emotionally devastating—and suspiciously coincided with the same week I decided to stop drinking scotch. Great timing, really.
Now, years later, I’m scrolling through my phone, trying to free up some storage space, torturing myself for fun (as one does)—and boom: the Alps. There we were. Smiling. Radiant. Blissfully unaware that in just a few years, I’d be crying into a pillow while cursing the day I ever laid eyes on that charming traitor.
What do I feel now?
Is it the same joy? That heady rush of alpine air and endorphins? Or is it a stomach-churning cocktail of nostalgia, betrayal, and mild lactose intolerance from all that cheese?
Same photo. Same events. But oh, how the story has changed.
This—right here—is the absurd poetry of being human. We don’t just live life—we endlessly re-edit it. Every memory is like a Netflix show we can’t stop binge-watching and then reviewing under wildly different moods. One day, it’s a five-star romance. Another, a dark psychological thriller with no commercial breaks. Time passes, perspectives shift, and suddenly, you’re not sure if you were in love or just under the influence of high-altitude oxygen deprivation. Our minds are unreliable narrators, constantly rewriting the script based on the weather inside our heads. And yet, we trust them. We hand them the pen and say, “Here. Go ahead. Define me.”
There’s something almost heroic in how desperately we try to impose meaning on things. We take the raw, chaotic footage of life and start splicing, cutting, pasting—until we’ve made a narrative we can live with. We’re all amateur filmmakers, stuck in the editing room of our memories, clutching old reels and muttering, “Maybe if I just change the music in this scene, it won’t hurt so much.”
Every heartbreak, every success, every embarrassment that probably no one even remembers—we carry them like ancient scrolls. We unravel and interpret them at various points in our lives, never the same way twice. Our history is subjective—colored by hormones, therapy sessions, unsolicited advice from friends who mean well but really should stop talking, and the cruel passage of time. It would be funny if it weren’t so deeply personal.
Actually, scratch that—it is funny. Because the joke is that we believe we’re rational beings. That we’ve got a handle on things. That our current understanding of events is the correct one. As if next Tuesday we won’t look back and say, “Wow, I was really in a weird place. Anyway, this version of me knows what’s up.” We are never the same person twice. And neither is the story we tell. This constant re-evaluation of life can be exhausting. One moment, you’re proud of that bold career move; the next, you’re cringing at your own ambition. A friendship that once felt like destiny now reads like a cautionary tale. You look back and wonder: Was I brave or just stupid? Inspired or delusional? In love or in denial?
Yes ..
To all of it ..
Probably ..
The lens through which we view our past is fogged by emotion, smudged with assumptions, and occasionally shattered entirely. And yet, we keep looking. We keep trying to make sense of it all. And that—tragic, hilarious, brave little habit—is what keeps us going.
Because even if the vacation photos now come with a side of bitterness—even if the person you once adored is now just someone you no longer speak to—the experience was real. The person was real.
The joy was real ..
The pain was real, too ..
All of it matters, even if the story evolves
We are walking paradoxes, narrating lives we don’t fully understand, making peace with the absurdity of it all while secretly hoping someone else out there gets it ..
And maybe laughs ..
Or cries ..
Or both