Flipping through a book of the poetry of Dana Gioia, these opening lines from a poem called “The Lunatic, the Lover, and the Poet” line caught my eye:

The tales we tell are either false or true,
But neither purpose is the point. We weave
The fabric of our own existence out of words,
And the right story tells us who we are.

Question to the room: Which story, or stories, tell you who you are?

Are there stories by which others understand you, but that aren’t true?