I've become one of my stories,
twisting, developing, growing
as I tell myself
over and over
the life I led
became lives
the lies I fed
met reality
sincerity blur
narrative overlap
the story of the end
of the storyteller.
My writing has recently become intensely personal, and as such it has become exceedingly sparse. The stories I tell are becoming shorter and shorter, as I realize that long stories are always ongoing and can often be divided into smaller, more manageable stories. I used to be able to tell other people's stories well, because I did not know them well. Now that I am close with fewer people (and those that I am close with, I know considerably more personally), telling their stories becomes increasingly more difficult. I simply cannot do them justice. This is, alas, a note on the death of a storyteller.