The title of Storyteller can’t be separated from me.
I don’t remember feeling much in my past. The outside world was almost always a monotonous grey – grey people with shifting faces, grey places that blurred in and out of relevance and grey things that dulled and disappeared. It hardly changed no matter if I was looking through lenses or mirrors. Sometimes it was as though I didn’t have eyes.
Inside wasn’t much better. It was nothing but a muted void, nothing to be seen. This is what others labelled as Life and I accepted it. I blended in with the other painted faces.
The only exceptions were the smooth fluorescents of a good story or show. I can recall their images and events washing over me with vigorous warmth, followed by the shocks that echoed in the ears, before fading back into the oblivion. I’m sure I resembled a statue to anyone watching, but that was when I was definitely alive.
I indulged in fantasy anytime I could. Sometimes it bled into the Outside, other times it blurred out reality completely. I continued to find ways to increase the sparks whenever they dulled into numbed tingles. Eventually, I became aware of the patterns. I got bored again.
Here and there, I would catch some wisp that put a pulse in me, but they passed quickly and disappeared. Sometimes I sought them out myself. I nudged and poked – anything that brought light. I found it interesting to see how others reacted to various stimuli. Only when I couldn’t control their effects did I stop. The Outside may be greys, but it has its black and whites. I know that I was balancing on its edges and making wicked ripples when I acted too stony. People don’t want villains in reality. Since then, I had hidden myself inside and marched along to the day’s routine.
I’ll admit that I came late to the party – I didn’t start writing as a hobby until high school, when teachers encouraged my poems and fiction. As I continued, I noticed the world moving and changing. The pulses from other people, things, and me soared and fell in varying rhythms. However, it’s terribly incomplete and more should be added. I know the whispers of electricity and I make my own sparks now, not simply escaping reality, but creating it. A continuous surge is necessary, or its back to impaired senselessness.
I write because I’m not alive otherwise.
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