I was making up stories about myself and my life. Lots and lots of stories. So many different stories. Spinning them, spinning them, spinning them, like glittering silver webs! Stories, stories, stories – so many wonderful stories! Well, they weren’t all wonderful, it’s true. Some of them were rotten. Some of them were lousy. What am I saying? Lots of them were rotten. Lots of them were lousy. Some of them were actually horrific. Really horrific. Appallingly horrific. Degrading and dehumanizing, if not actually sick. They actually were sick. How could I even think up such stories? How could I manage to dream them up? How could I spin them? And why on earth would I want to?  Why would I want to do that to myself?


But isn’t that an amazing thing, now that I come to think of it? isn’t that a truly wonderful thing, that I could spin such horrible webs to get caught in? How deeply strange and mysterious that I would do such a thing as to make up rotten awful stories for myself and then get totally stuck in them, totally sucked up in them. I make them up and then I straightaway believe in them. I believe them in a flash. I stick to my own stories like a fly gets stuck to fly-paper. Hopelessly stuck. Stupidly stuck. Come to think of it maybe it isn’t so wonderfully mysterious after all. Maybe its just plain dumb. Maybe I’m mad in the head. I am mad in the head – what am I saying. I must be mad to be doing this. Pure mad. Stone mad. Making up stories, making up stories, making up stories like some kind of crazy bastard. What in the name of God is wrong with me? Why would I do this to myself, keep on doing this to myself?


I was lying when I said that some of the stories I was making up were great, wonderful, marvellous, etc. Now that I come to think of it none of them were. They’re all crap. They’re all lousy. When I said that some of the stories were great, were wonderful, that was just another story. That was just another story I was spinning. Making up stories comes so easily to me – I do it without thinking. I spin off a different one every second. And then I straightaway believe in it. I straightaway get stuck in it, like a fly getting stuck on flypaper. I can’t trust myself at all. I can’t trust anything I say, I can’t trust anything I think. None of it is true. None of my stories are true. That’s why they are called stories, because they’re not true. And most of the time I don’t even know that I’m making up stories – that’s how good a story-teller I am! I don’t have a clue. I get taken in every time. I get taken in, and then I get taken in again. Over and over again. I’m like a master hypnotist. I’m hypnotizing myself the whole time. Taking myself in. Fooling myself. Wrapping myself up in layer after layer of self-deception. Who knows where one layer ends and another one begins? I don’t know. I don’t have a clue. I’m just sitting here, making up stories in my head like some kind of mad deranged bastard. What the hell am I at? What’s wrong with me?


Come to think of it, I don’t even know if I am sitting here making up stories in my head. How the hell do I know if that’s true or not? For all I know that’s just another story too. It’s a story about how I’m sitting here making up stories, like some kind of crazy spider spinning, spinning, spinning. Spinning out stories, spinning out umpteen zillion crazy lopsided webs like a spider on LSD which has got lost in its own trip. Part of an experiment. Run by some mad scientist. I’m spinning out stories that I’m spinning out stories. Lots and lots of stories. Grim old stories. Bad old stories. Grindingly awful old stories. Horror stories that nest within each other. Stories that you just couldn’t believe and I’m making them all up…


That’s probably why I’m keeping myself so hectically busy spinning stories the whole time, come to think of it. It’s because if I stop I’ll realize that it’s all a story. ALL of it. Every last little bit of it…








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