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.