Confessions of a Narrator.
Dear reader,
I would like to pause here for a moment and tell you why you are reading my stories. Like Jean-Jaques Rousseau, I am confessing. You are intrigued by the openness, honesty, and authenticity of my words. The details of my stories ring true.
Paradoxically, these very details make my stories universal. Stories show us something about our shared humanity.
A confession is a formal statement admitting that one is guilty of a crime. In that sense, I am not painting my actions in a sympathetic light. I am punishing myself.
But confessions also embolden me. I don’t care what you think of me as a narrator because I’m not a real person anyway. I can say whatever I want and you will never know if any of it is true.
The truth is you don’t know me. You will never know me.
At the same time you do know me. Because I am everyone and everyone is me. I am a narrator, telling a story that no one knows and yet everyone knows. I translate my thoughts into words so that you can see them.
I speak for myself and I speak for you.
Rumination begets narrating. The melancholy of life makes life beautiful.
Narrators don’t believe in God because the narrator is God. I am God. I can do…
