A story is, at best, a limitation of the truth.
To tell a story about actual events, I have to highlight certain details and ignore others. I have to put in sequence things that happened all at once. I have to artificially begin it and end it, and, in between, I have to leave out entire events in order to make it comprehensible.
Even if I’m telling a story of my direct experience of what’s happening now, I only ever experience a very narrow sliver of what’s happening and only from one perspective. Everything else I may tell myself about it is imagination. And imagination is not the same thing as what is truly happening.
The Truth exists beyond my human capacity to know it in all its wholeness. How can I tell the truth if I can’t even access it? The best I can do is live in what’s left when I recognize that I can’t know anything in any abstract, objective way. I just witness what happens when I drop my story and let the universe take over without my interference.
When I do, I see that all my attempts to interfere are futile. The universe is always what it should be. I can’t interfere. It’s not possible. I can only be what I really am or try not to be. Because the only way to separate from what is is through a story told by an identity born in imagination.
This is not fatalism. I don’t have to leave the world broken, if it appears to be. I just realize that the only way I can “fix” the world is to understand what it is: a limited projection of mind that is never objectively true, only believed or not.