The Storymakers

What do you suppose Jim Morrison ever did that was real?  Once he became known as a household name that is.  Every move, every breath, every word he spoke was calculated, enjoying his celebrity, using it to control people.

A lot of us are like this, only we don’t know we’re famous.  We’re storymakers; people who create moments that are memorable, meaningful but elusive.  They’re gone as soon as they happen, but we’ve planned them perfectly, rehearsed the dialogue and perfected the execution.  Made to affect the person we’re with, made to create a lasting impact, hoping for something bigger in return.

I lied when I told him I’d never heard the song.  I lied when I gave him the stone.  I lied when he told me the truth.  I lied because I was making a story up in my head, and every reaction I had was planned, thought out and affirmed by circumstance.  Only he didn’t know it, or he did, and he’s a storymaker too.  In fact, I know he is, he told me himself.

We walk the streets, thinking big thoughts, using our imagination to tease our world, our innermost desires, and we are exactly who we want to be in those fantasies.  Indelible, irresistible and in total control.

We place ourselves in situations that can have influence over others.  We are the star of our creation, the writer of our stories.  God exists in our fingertips, in our hearts.  We are God. 

I’m not saying we’re mean-spirited.  I’m thinking of exactly who I want to read this as I write it.  I’m making up the story as I type the words.  I’m listening to the Doors so that you can think back to the time you did too.  So that you can get on the same vibe I’m on, and feel the words that you’re reading as I do.  And I want you to feel sick as you finish reading this.

I’m an honest person, but maybe people don’t ask me enough questions.  I’m usually the one to interview.  I want to know about your experiences, how your brain works, what makes you tick.  I want to know because I want to know what it’s like to be you.  I am you.

I mirror people.  I pick up idiosyncrasies.  If I spend enough time with you, I’ll hold my hands the way you do when you think, or laugh like you because I like the way it looks or sounds.  I’ll use your expressions, I’ll think your thoughts, I’ll put myself in your shoes because I can.  I’m an empathic clairvoyant.   I’ll live your life for a moment and take you in then move on to the next person.

I accumulate stories wherever I go.  The person on the bus that doesn’t fit their seat.  I’ll absorb you and live your life for a fraction of a second then my attention turns to the bus driver, and I’ll live you in your home on your couch.  I’ll see the lady at the grocery store with her book and her plants.  I make up your story because I can’t help myself.

And when you walk away, I’ll imagine where you’re going, I’ll follow you in my thoughts until someone else piques my curiosity.  I’m a storymaker, and I’ll make you up before I’ve even met you.

So now that you’re in my life, I’ve taken what I’ve needed for my repertoire of existence.  Only, I ask myself, am I really living mine?  Or am I living the story of someone I’ve made up? 

Aren’t we all.