Where's My Story

As I sit down to write, glancing around the room at all the things I've collected so meticulously over the years, my eyes roaming from a tower of compact discs to a shelf of books, crawling across the sparsely decorated walls and eventually finding their way back to a neglected computer screen, I wonder aloud to myself, " What is my story? "  Flipping through my yearbooks, I am convinced that it is one of betrayed emotion, complete with a wounded, bleeding heart; in those photographs, I can almost see the walls I'd built around myself.  But that's not it, that's not my story.  I see a literary magazine, its frayed edges and worn cover showing its age, and I'm almost convinced that my story rests somewhere within one of those angst-ridden poems.  But it isn't there either.  A bible beckons from the corner of the room, and for the briefest of instances, I think my story might be one of innocence lost and forgiveness found.  A nice cliché, but it isn't me.  
     " So where is my story, " I whisper gently to the patiently waiting computer screen. 
     " I don't know, " the screen whispers back, staring blankly at me as a lonely cast of letters fill the screen, " you tell me! "
      And as I am there, trying to find the story I've lived to tell, all I find is that I haven't the faintest idea where to start.