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The Storyteller

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posted on Oct, 15 2005 @ 12:02 AM
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I'm not really sure what this is about. Take it as you will.


Some time ago, one far older and wiser than myself came to me, and rested his weary and long-traveled legs. We sat in awkward silence for a time, and then, unbidden, he began to speak.

He said many things to me, things strange and things terrible, things mundane and things very very unseemly.

In time, he started to take on the tone of a storyteller: there was some grand design woven into the complex tapestry of
ideas that he verbalized before me, but my mind was too small to see it in its entirety.

As he went on, though, I began to catch glimpses of the bigger picture-- momentary epiphanies that were integrated into
my psyche and relegated to the murky unplumbed depths of the subconscious as quickly as they came to me.

The stories he was telling me began to frighten me very badly indeed.

As he told these thousand tales, I found myself less and less able to divert my attention from his words. The stories he told
became parts of myself-- and I became part of them; his eloquence was such that every word was a mirror reflecting some
secret facet of my own mind. As this cataract of silver-tongued magnificence continued to pour from the mouth of my companion,
it became clear that these stories he told had from the very first concerned none other than myself.

That is to say, in every anecdote that issued forth from the ancient demagogue, I was protagonist and antagonist; I was
everyone, I was the greatest hero and the basest villain and the most downtrodden commoner.

He went on for hours longer, and with each passing moment the world that he painted before me became more and more real. Its
substance became mine, and mine commingled with its; the story and I were one another.

In time, I was wholly convinced that the things he had said to me were truer than the reality that my senses percieved.

I cavorted through my strange new world, delighting in the alien pleasures that abounded there; my old body was discarded in
favor of a more fashionable model, and I was finally able to undergo the corrective karmic surgery that I have needed so badly
for so very long. And all throughout, the old one was there by my side, acting as my ambassador to this place that he had spoken
into being.

And then, just as quickly as had come to sit with me, he was gone, and I was alone.

A story without a storyteller is a bleak place; I am aimless and frightened as I peer around the daunting corners of my lonely new home.
It is cold here, and I do not like it very much at all any more, but even as I yearn for the bliss of the old lies they slip further from my grasp.




 
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