SEARCHING FOR MY STORY

I keep searching for my story. I am the one who...I am the one who didn't....I am the one who did...I dart in and out of this roiling mass of self, looking for solid ground, a place to plant my flag, the flag of ME, to know and say this is my story, this is the skeleton, the backbone to which all my choices have been anchored. This is the way it all makes sense...
     And I do this even though I know there is no solid ground, that perspective is always shifting, that what I think I know is not only subject to change but is in fact always changing. I do this even though I know there is no Self with a capital S, nothing solid, fixed, nothing that doesn't contain its own contradictions. Memory itself works its secret revisions, offering up each version as if it's the only one, the truth, and not just one in a long line of embroideries. Memory isn't duplication; everything past is summoned up into the present and the present exerts its influence, becomes the context. More than the context because none of this - memory, present, act of revision - is a thing, a separate thing. It's all fluid, and the present enters the past, and vice versa, like a liquid poured in slow motion into another liquid, with billows and swirls and eddies that settle slowly until completely merged into something that feels -- only feels -- solid and has the ring -- only the ring -- of truth.
     This is a fact for me, by which I mean it has the ring of truth, this "fact" that there is no Truth, but rather perspective which is always shifting, undergoing change. This is the source of my freedom, that no matter what, I can always find a way to see things differently.When I'm suffering, I know there is the possibility of another perspective, a chance to find the purpose to the pain, and in that purpose find relief.  Basho: every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home. Movement, fluidity, stability in motion, the only solid is no-solid, the only ground no-ground.
     And still I search for my story...