The Creep's Narration.

Sitting idle near the window with the transparent glass frame, I could see somebody’s reflection continuously spying on me; little did I realised the reflection was of mine. Just like that; the perspective of all stories aligned in my mind, let’s call it “the creep’s narration”. The idea of stories is basic plagiarism; stolen thoughts, characters, heroes and heroines. “For days will come and go, the prime of one’s opinion is unaltered”, said some John. The striking idea of deducing the way a person thinks is horrifying, the "world of critics” as they say. In this world one’s idea is as good as none. One could guess the reason right, if one tries to perceive it. As the author(narrator), I have the sole responsibility of narrating mine. “The mutual grounds of the diverse ideas.” As of the year 2020, I’m 20 years old. Every while after, there’s a lot going in my psyche and with that a desperate need to understand them. I see someone and I feel the need to contemplate the character and the trivialities. I too feel exposed, but it’s all good as I too reserve some judgments on others. Well I’m no exception of hypocrisy, none is. I don’t try and find a need to do so, it’s just fascinating to me. Human are beings of complex emotions and notions; they’re addicted to this rush of complex emotions and they want to bear these composite ideas even after knowing how everything breaks down to some harsh trivialities. Stories, narrating them, finding them, reading them or living them; if is a good one, feels better than a cigarette drag. So, we weave a fine story in those trivial faces and we often tend to relate and live them. For so long I’ve wondered, what determines the extravagant price of an old piece of furniture or some painting; well it is those stories associated with them. I recall seeing this one canvas with smeared pink color on a green layer; the instance I saw that, the only thing I could recall was the ceiling of the room I grew in. I revisited some old memories, recreated some stories and shared them to the people accompanying me and cherished the moment of narration as a story itself. Even the unconscious mind has a knack for living new stories as dreams and the conscious mind is fond of them, some even more so. I’m an addict of stories, I journal my dreams, listen to people sharing their nostalgia, and fascinate contemplating characters in unknown or trivial faces.