Am I writing this story or is it writing me?

Life is like a spiral staircase. Situations circle round and round, but every time I reach a new level my perspective changes. The landscape hasn't changed, really, but I see things differently. Writing a story is like that. If I allow it, if I don't direct it, the story unfolds, simply emerges. Does that sound Zen? Life is like that too. Holes in the fabric of my busyness allow light to shine through. What are holes? The absense of something. The container of nothing. But can nothing be contained?