The story of me

In the beginning—but there was no beginning because I cannot remember a time when I was not—I was born—which means I was carried, or borne, from somewhere to somewhere else. I went to school where I learned a few things and forgot many more. I loved and lost many times, and I moved from here to here. Finally I died, and returned whence I came. Which, I finally realized, was not really dying because I hadn’t gone anywhere. So what was the point of this story of me, anyway? Was it worth it, after all? The answer to that question from the vast assembly of gods who were watching my performance was a resounding, deafening silence.