Down below, a stray weed was peeking out from under a head of lettuce, as if hiding from my pruning grasp. Aha! Natural selection. The individual weed has proliferated by nestling itself next to plants favored by human farmers. A story is generated, based on a projection of my own experiences. One can then cross-check this story with empirical data in many different ways, so as to satisfy oneself. If one's inquiry takes one as far as one goes without serious contradictions, one is satisfied with the story, and it may pass into circulation.
But what was the plant actually doing, if not simply becoming and unfolding in that particular space, in accordance with necessity, altogether apart from my own interests?
Our stories unfold on various deeper frameworks, which hold until competing frameworks come into view, all of which are maintained past the point of generation. Our stories live and die with us, on greater time horizons than our individual lives, but which decay in turn.
