You spend a lot of time playing with different narratives. You always mused that this freedom in narrative was something of a skill in itself, the ability to look past narrative as fact and consider it as purposeful.
Now though you wonder if you did not go too far. Truth is completely elusive. Sometimes for a moment you think you might have a clue, that there are shades of validity – some narratives right, some narratives wrong. But you find it all to easy, in a moment, in a conversation, while reading a book – to step outside the subjectivity of narrative and consider another. No longer is there anything that you can grasp, nothing solid, nothing that doesn’t melt and transform into something else when you tilt your head or rub your eyes.
Narrative is very socially useful, it binds us together, binds societies, families, cultures.
You can play that game, enjoy it, be a part of something. Rail against the other, join in with the narratives of the group. But all it takes is a second alone… a tilt of the head, a blinking of the eyes. The crowd fades into the background, the noise, the camaraderie, the belonging.
You are alone again, looking down on them all, observing and analysing, their truths are not your truths.