the narrator

how strange it is for me to assume that i don’t have a story.

how strange it is for me to assume that I don’t have a story simply because i don’t have a narrator.

I can’t tell you how strange.

Because my narrator is narrating all of the time. it doesn’t stop narrating. and feels compelled to narrate everything in such a ceaseless stream of narrating chatter that it just becomes a layer in the background that i forget is even there.

endlessly

endless endless narration

and the narrator is rarely narrating me. it doesn’t even use my voice. Who the hell are these characters anyway? I have no idea. It’s all so foreign to me and it doesn’t help that characters speak in foreign accents. When I pay attention to the voices, to these characters, its like watching a movie, but it’s hard to make sense of it,  because usually I have missed the beginning and i have no idea what these characters are up to or how they relate to each other and of course there are no subtitles. I don’t think they have much relationship with me.  i am incidental to the narrative, if i appear in it at all.

It’s not my movie (and I wouldn’t even pay to see it).

Or else the narrator is inescapable. Nothing I do escapes the narration. the narrator’s judgements, critique and analysis, the narrator’s predictions and foreshadowings and forebodings and conclusions and bygone conclusions.

If only the narrator could stop narrating, I might be able to get some sleep. And then perhaps I might be able to finally wake up and be present to the world outside the narrative. Assuming there is such a thing.

instead i live in a half dream that i sometimes wish was a full dream or better yet no dream at all. But I’m not in control here. The narrator does not yield control.

I try to tell the narrator there’s no need to be so controlling  because it’s not like I am going to do anything outside the narrative. I can’t even see that far. But I think this narrator has some sort of god complex.

About The Lost Pedestrian

In my wanderings throughout the moments/days/years, I try in earnest to find the mystical within the mundane and the mundane within the mystical, oftentimes confusing one from the other. I have wandered and roamed through many a city, many a town, in a state of wonder and bewilderment, without necessarily going anywhere. I am easily lost, but eventually found. (I am guessing you have just found me). My sincere hope is that you will find Something in this warehouse of thought, memory and false memory, words, numbers, tangents, murmurs, echoes (lots and lots of echoes), voices, dreams, and other paraphernalia.
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