When I feel out of sorts I take myself to book shops and touch the spines of novels that are all made up of the same 26 characters. There is a comfort in other peoples words that I find difficult to replicate. I have a default playlist of bands that comfort me on darker days, it's an embarrassing and eclectic collection of lyrics that make me confident enough to feel.
I slide along in life, creating a fictional character of myself. My narrative changes daily, from tragedy to romance. My story a transition from good to bad, happy to sad and back again. Stories mean a lot to me, an artwork with an embedded narrative will always grab me and force me to look and look hard.
My truth though, is as much a story as anything else. I remember that once upon a time I was in an incredibly painful place, where there were three truths, there were three main characters and there was a potential for other webs that, if written, could have formed a trilogy centred around one occurrence. To find the one overreaching truth would mean a documentation and analysis of the other truths involved. If you have ever believed in a shared consciousness, then this would, at some point be achievable. If your intuition is telling you something, maybe it's right because on another level you have been able to tap into the shared consciousness of your immediate social group.
Marketing contains fictional characters playing out tropes, an advert on the TV at four in the morning is showing some woman demonstrating that this bleach is better than that bleach, it's like George and The Dragon, except that stubborn stain is the dragon, and the house wife is George and I feel sick to my stomach. (and on top of that, I can't abide bleach).
If we're all controlled by The Hierophant, occasionally depicted as the entity that dictates and creates our stories, an interpreter of secret knowledge, and our life is quiet, then maybe someone else has become the protagonist, or maybe it was never your story to begin with. Maybe you were only a small character bought in as a side-plot, a filler for 30 pages that fades from the readers mind.
I can spin a story, embellished fictional accounts drawn from my own and others lives; in some ways I am parasitical. I consume and exhaust.
Awhile ago I visited a friend, while there the discussion turned dark, there were tears and despair at a perceived failing in having no outside influence further than that of our peer group. There was a need for a concrete connection, she too paints, writes, thinks; wanton for something that would attach her to a wider reach. An impact on the world, so to speak.
What I'm saying is, I'm telling my stories, I'm telling other stories, I'm crafting narratives. I'm experimenting with fact and fiction and if you believe everything I write, you'll believe anything.
(but hasn't that always been my truth?)