All stories are told by a teller. The story we're telling determines who the teller is. And the teller determines what story is told. All this is always happening simultaneously.
But any telling can only possibly be partly true as it always will only be part of all that happened. "Just the facts, ma'am," doesn't include what your pulse was when the accident happened. Why is that? So much is left out. Perhaps even the most important parts ... left out of our telling. But we don't know this and we take our telling to be who we really are, to be who they really are, to be what really happened.
So what are we to make of this? We aren't really the character we are in our stories we tell about ourselves. Our stories are empty.
But we can't stop telling some story, can we? I don't know. Probably not. We will continue to tell stories to our friends and co-workers, to our children, to our parents, and to ourselves. We can't give up our storytelling.
So what can we do? We can hold our stories lightly. We can let our stories go when they no longer serve us. We can joyfully invent new stories. And we can take our true role. Perhaps who we are is some great mystery that is acting a part in a fictional play about ourselves. We laugh and cry. We long for love. We suffer. We love feeling the sun as it hits our faces. We relax in the warm embrace of our lover.
Can we enjoy living life - acting in the play - for its own sake and not because, in our story we are coming to someplace or going away from someplace? What if, in reality, there is no coming or going?