At some point in our lives, we come face to face with Chaos. What separates us from each other is our approach to that meeting.

Some will run in fear. Those will spend the rest of their days running from Chaos, hiding. They will create a dark corner of their own world, and never truly show themselves, for fear that Chaos might still be lurking.

Some will wrestle Chaos into submission. The problem with this approach is that it grants only the illusion of control. Chaos is still the natural state, and you are, ironically, only perpetuating further chaos by upsetting the natural order- that is, that Chaos rules.

Or else you befriend Chaos, walking side by side with it. In that case, you become like a child, recognizing that Chaos must often lead the way, but will occasionally let you venture out on your own.

That is why I write. Chaos, I realize, is the order of the day in my waking hours. Fiction, though, packages life into neat and tidy boxes. Fiction allows us to make sense of chaos, even manipulate it, however briefly. It gives us a brief window of time in which we let go of Chaos’s hand and say, “It’s okay. I got this.”

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