“how old were you?” is always the first question i ask. “how old were you, when you realised you were in a story? when you realised you were a story?”
a lot of people stutter at this, having just realised the story they’re in. a lot of people deny it violently, refusing to answer any more questions and leaving outright. some have a general idea, thinking back to a birthday party, a first kiss, a rainy day. and some others still, have it written down on a piece of paper. prepared for my question like they had been waiting for it forever. they probably expected it. my reputation precedes me.
the best ones always smile, and i know instantly i’ve hit the jacket. they say they’ve always known, that they’ve known for as long as they can remember.
they’re always liars. i write down their answer, and ask the next question.
i’ve always been in search of stories, since my own (quite unpleasant) realisation as a young journalling teenager. i’ve made a life out of it, listening to people talk about heartbreak and love and loss and grief and joy. i’ve read hundreds, thousands of accounts, old faded diaries, confessions written in the margins of notebooks, unfinished letters— you name it, i’ve seen it. i’ve written it all down and typed it up and made it look pretty. inhale and exhale. swallow and regurgitate.
it’s exhausting. but then again, when you do something from the dawn of time, it does start to get old after a while.
i’ve memorised it all by now. the tragedy. the doomed lovers, forced to fail from the start. the adventure. the mystery, the who-dunnit. the summer of love. the regrets. whatever story you could think of, i’ve written it. the myth of creation is that nothing is new. what events unfold here, have unfolded a million times before.
in other words, you could call me an authority on stories.
i have laughed with you on good days, and cried with you through loss. the grief you have felt is something i wrote down on a stray piece of paper and left under a cup of coffee. whenever you have felt anger, i have typed it up and struck out errors with a red marker. i have burned a million first drafts, and a billion second drafts, and published a billion more.
and what i can safely say, from all these aeons of spinning tales out of nothing, is that there is nothing i hate more than a story.
what a terrible life, to be in a story. to have your fate sealed for you the moment the reader opens to the first page. to plead for the life of someone who’s been dead since the author thought to commit pen to paper. when someone on a page grieves and rages and rants, it is you they are begging, dear reader. it is you they are begging for forgiveness. i never knew why i made it so, and there is nothing i regret more.
i do not know when it ends. i do not know if it ends at all. i definitely dont want to be here, typing away for the rest of time, but i do not think it is my choice. i’ve never been the one writing my story. that’s always something i’ve envied you for. and for all the songs i’ve written, they’ve always been worth being sung. that’s another thing i envy.
i can only hope mine will be worth being sung, in the end.