My personal narrative was taking over. My personal narrative. My my my. Personal personal personal. Narrative narrative narrative. It was consuming everything in sight! It was eating up everything! My personal narrative had turned into an all-consuming virus – I can’t think why I had ever encouraged it. Why I ever let it get out of hand. Why I gave it free rein. I suppose it was because I thought it was something good, something useful. Something I thought would help me…
My personal narrative was squeezing the life out of everything. Every last drop. Every last drop of life. It was desiccating life. Desiccating it and desecrating it all in one. My personal narrative was strangling life like a trained assassin strangling his unsuspecting victim. With a silken cord. With a length of piano wire. Strangling it dead. Methodically and efficiently. In a businesslike fashion.
My personal narrative. My personal narrative. My personal narrative. Strangling life. Strangling life. Strangling life.
I don’t know how to convey the utter numbing sense of horror that I feel upon being hit by this revelation. Horror is a weak and feeble word. ‘Horror’ is an everyday word and what I am experiencing is not an everyday feeling. It’s too much of a turnaround for me to get my head around – I can’t understand how I could have made such a terrible mistake. ‘Mistake’ is a weak and feeble word.
The personal narrative, that most comforting and familiar of things, that thing we know so well that we don’t even see it at work at all. Never do we see it at work. It’s always at work but we never pay it the slightest heed. What could be more comforting and familiar than the personal narrative. It’s always there, always there. Telling us what’s happening, telling us who we are, telling us what stuff means. Putting everything in its place, in its proper perspective. Organizing how we see the world.
The personal narrative is so familiar to us that we don’t see it there, any more than we would see an old and faithful servant putting food on the table for us every day of our lives. An old trusty servant to guide us in the way we see things, to manage things for us so well we never have to bother managing them ourselves. So how are you going to feel when you see that this trusty servant is actually a giant killer sea-monster squid, a kraken, crushing the life out of everything with its lethally powerful tentacles. Running everything and strangling it inch by inch.
The personal narrative. It’s the secret machine working away beneath the surface. It’s the bureaucracy of the thinking mind. So effective. So efficient. Someone should give it an award. Nothing is as efficient at strangling life as the personal narrative.
Life used to be great, right? You know it did. Don’t pretend that you have forgotten. So what does life look like now that the personal narrative has gotten hold of it? Ask yourself that. What’s the story now? How can anyone say that life hasn’t been turned into a pile of dismal shit? How can anyone say that it hasn’t turned into a total joke? A piss-take? A mockery? How could anyone pretend otherwise? You couldn’t. You’d be lying. Life isn’t worth anything after the personal narrative gets hold of it. The personal narrative makes shit of it.
The fucking personal narrative. I comment to myself.
Wasn’t such a great fucking idea after all, was it?