If our only experience of the world is based on the stories we tell ourselves about the otherwise meaningless grey mush that surrounds us then why don’t we make up better, nicer stories?
What’s stopping us?
[I just realised that although I wrote a few posts in sequence you may not read them that way! This previous post gives context for my apparent solipsism]
The Obvious? 
Maybe the grey mush is stopping us.
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I recommend doing what we do. All our long drives for several weeks have been accompanied by Arthur Ransome audiobooks.
Those are better stories. 🙂
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