What if life was simply a story? To be read by those in higher existence than us. Are our lives made and dictated by those whims? Then when does the chain end? Those who made us were ultimately made and those who made them were also. This was what a young man wondered when he woke with a voice in his head. He thought himself a philosopher but couldn’t grasp the concept itself. He couldn’t remember what had happened last night and frankly, by the state of things, he didn’t want to. He refused to believe that he was being narrated even when it was obvious and the voice gave him hints. He had often fantasised about being the lead of a story but now that his dream had come to fruition he found the idea terrifying that he lived in a story to be read by others. Before that how did it know he fantasied about that, none of his friends did. He hoped it didn’t know about everything he tried to hide. He moved around convinced that what he felt was real and thus that this voice was simply his egotistical side feeding itself. He tried to deny it but the voice in his head simply continued to document his thoughts against his will. He wondered if this was simply a dream and whether or not it would go away. Sadly this was not the case as he tried to rouse himself through increasingly Ludacris methods but found it to be fruitless when he gave up after slamming his foot in the fridge door like a jackass. He wondered, did this voice actually have an owner behind it. Thinking about it he found the voice to closely resemble Morgan freeman which he was content to deal with as all humans should be. After all this man thought that Morgan freeman was the epitome of human evolution and like a bigot he was, refused to be convinced otherwise with fine examples like Christopher Walken. As he mulled over his daily routine he found the voice to be quite grating on him.
“Will you shut up? I’m busy here” he shouted to the ceiling. The more he thought about it the more likely it seemed that this narrator was the equivalent of god as it seemed to be prone on saying what was happening as it happened.
“If so, God is a dick!” He shouted “OH COME ON!” He quickly became frustrated as the voice said everything he did while he was in the middle of doing it. He kicked the side of his door making him stumble back and fall before getting up and grumbling to himself
“When I fucking find you, you better godamn run.” He said trying to intimidate a voice which existed in his head. He shouted in anger before storming out of the room trying to escape the voice but this did nothing but infuriate him further.
“Kitten… Space… Bacon, Motherfucker!” he said trying to outwit the voice by simply shouting random phrases into the air. It didn’t work. He wondered if he was on a game show as a stage of denial set in. He tried to ignore it but the pain from his foot and the monumental headache caused by the voice that seemed to come from everywhere made him seethe. He decided to turn on some music to drown out the anger he was feeling and rushed for the nearest Susan Boyle CD. This may not have been available as he had no intention of buying a cd he did not want and he wondered if the voice was simply ‘dicking’, as he thought it, with him now. When he turned the music on it was far too silent so he turned it up but found that the voice also increased in volume.
He wondered if the reverse was possible but this was a terrible idea as that would cause a breakdown of the story. Not bothered by this drastic action like the chimp he was, he proceeded to turn the volume down until at last all that could be heard of the voice was a small buzzing that continued unabated by this unrefined monkey that ruined the story for perfectly good audiences like the current reader, but then the voice changed something as he heard a mental snap. It had allowed him too much freedom for thinking on his own and as such he found that his body moved of its own violation drastically turning the volume back up until the narrator became audible again and the story resumed normaly. He found himself unable to approach the stereo again so he tried to use his computer. He plugged his headphones in but they did nothing. It reached the point where all he could hear was the Voice and he began to lose himself in it. Its constant monologue began to include more trivial tasks as he did less and less before degrading into the lowest state of description. For the rest of the day he simply spent the rest of the day locked in his room and rocked back and forth wondering when it would stop. When the voices would end. He slowly lost grip on reality and began to fall to day dreams but in them his nightmare became worse. What the voice said could no longer be heard, but it was written over everything in his dreams; even his loved ones had the writing inked deep into their flesh and clothes as his world seemed to blacken. He woke up to find the voice still continuing to log for everything he did which was worth mentioning, until at last he simply talked about his lack of action (something this story sorely needed), but then what part of the human life was worth keeping history about? Why when fiction held such interest for most keen readers? Because, he figured out, it is worth having something to connect to and even when the character is written on paper to some extent they do exist. Such as he did. He had heard everything dictated by this force and found it to have some impact on the world around him. He began to take note of what the voice said although this was pointless as he knew that everything that happened was already recorded. He just didn’t know where. If he had time to search the internet he was sure he could find it somewhere but the migraine kept bringing him back. Only through the scribbling of his pencil on paper did he find solace. In knowing that through this he could become his own Author or… someone else’s.
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