I have a problem with narratives. I don't believe in them. Don't find them interesting. To be perfectly honest, it's not that I haven't tried. But you just can't survive in this world without occasionally disguising your weaknesses as convictions. So there it is. I can't tell a story to save my life. It's true. You'll see.
Not only that, but there's a little bit of contempt rising up in me whenever I observe a storyteller in the act. As I watch them speak, I can almost see them transform into a little spoiled brat with an oversized lollipop, running around with glazed eyes, contaminating the room with their careless stickiness.
Maybe I should do poetry. People might be more forgiving about not understanding what the hell I'm trying to say when the understanding part is not officially required. Or maybe one day I'll just miraculously cease cherishing my narraphobia so dearly, and it'll naturally evaporate, looking for someone else to cling to, who'll love it unconditionally as I once have.
But we're getting sidetracked. Let's focus: narratives.
When you adopt the identity of the observer early on in life, you naturally get used to perceiving life as reality within reality within reality. What people sense as TIME that is pushing them further and forward, you grasp as SPACE that is taking you deeper and below. Experiencing life this way becomes easily an addictive habit, since it also happens to be escapism's most effective device.
However, it seemed undeniable that whatever it was that was 'happening' in the horizontal realm of things - narratives' kingdom - could never be half as engaging as the texture of one moment's infinite layers, constantly unfolding into the present.