Stoke
What is reality? What is truth? We all have truths, are mine the same as yours? Everyone has a different perception of reality, to one my reality could be “amusing lies” though it is the truth in my eyes. Some say reality was meant to be embellished, otherwise no one will listen. We're all caught up in our own realities, believing we hold supremacy. No one will give a second thought to a story of banal existence. Though truth is stranger than fiction, it's not to say it's always more compelling.
When I was younger I was stung on the lip by a bee. I cried for hours until my father told me something to abate my tears. “You know, bees often circle the mouth of a story teller,” he told me in that sort of whisper that always drew me in, “You might have a gift, you never know…” My father had succeeded in stemming my tears but little did he know he also sparked the kindling that would soon become a fiery passion of mine.
I had never had a memorable past and I was sure my future would be bland as well. I was never the one to stick out in a room full of people, a crowded hall or street. I’d never accomplished anything meriting praise or approval and I knew when I died my memory would flicker out like a match in the wind.
I had always been comforted by that thought. I had a feeling of freedom, that no one was expecting anything from me, and I could live my life to my own rules. I didn’t belong to anyone. My new story began when I started grade ten at a new school. I had never had many friends and I would be entering this new environment completely unaccompanied, by friends or reputation. Since no one had any preconceived notions about my past, I figured I would have a little fun with my peers. I decided it was as good a time as any to begin my long career of decorated fabrication.
It had started innocently enough, changing my home town, then it slowly escalated to more grandiose fish-stories; prestigious accomplishments at incredibly young ages, a prodigy of music or academics, and so on. In all truth I never expected any of it to catch on, but I soon realized the masses’ infallible captivation with an embroidered tale. I became a small legend in my own right, a big fish in a small pond. I got ahead of myself; I admit I was quite partial to make-believe.
Eventually the façade fell. In the even of almost anything there is adversity and protestations. When one goes to the extreme, you receive extreme polar reactions, either they love it or they hate it. Though I was for the most part a success, there were those who disagreed. There were those who called me a liar, that I was obscurant and ashamed of my humble upbringings. They all asked why I was not content with the truth, with my reality. This was where I diverged from the majority. I was not ashamed, nowhere near it. I described it as a social experiment, the construction of a new reality. It was my protestation to the majority’s perception of a communal reality. I believed everyone to be incarcerated, always needing to be sure of reality and truth. But the reality is that truth means nothing in the collective sense. For me and for those who believed the tales, my reality is the stories I tell. I am characterized by them; they become part of my being.
You may ask why I chose this path, why I didn’t stick with the trivial existence I had in my past. Why, if I was so content with being invisible, did I turn the spotlight upon myself? The answer is this; though I had freedom in my insipid way of life, I have more freedom now. Nothing is beyond my reach, I can fabricate anything I wish and become something completely different, something distinctive. If everyday life is conventional, usual, and run of the mill, the stories derived from them are colloquies, bland and tasteless. When we have the freedom to imagine other worlds, other fantastical situations, and nothing is impossible. Everyone has a small desire to be immortal. People tell stories because the idea of our words living on when we’ve passed away is exciting. Everyone wants to live forever, perhaps not literally, but when we tell these tales that are passed down, told and retold even after our passing, it continues to give fuel to the fire and the flames can live on forever.
What is reality? What is truth? We all have truths, are mine the same as yours? Everyone has a different perception of reality, to one my reality could be “amusing lies” though it is the truth in my eyes. Some say reality was meant to be embellished, otherwise no one will listen. We're all caught up in our own realities, believing we hold supremacy. No one will give a second thought to a story of banal existence. Though truth is stranger than fiction, it's not to say it's always more compelling.
When I was younger I was stung on the lip by a bee. I cried for hours until my father told me something to abate my tears. “You know, bees often circle the mouth of a story teller,” he told me in that sort of whisper that always drew me in, “You might have a gift, you never know…” My father had succeeded in stemming my tears but little did he know he also sparked the kindling that would soon become a fiery passion of mine.
I had never had a memorable past and I was sure my future would be bland as well. I was never the one to stick out in a room full of people, a crowded hall or street. I’d never accomplished anything meriting praise or approval and I knew when I died my memory would flicker out like a match in the wind.
I had always been comforted by that thought. I had a feeling of freedom, that no one was expecting anything from me, and I could live my life to my own rules. I didn’t belong to anyone. My new story began when I started grade ten at a new school. I had never had many friends and I would be entering this new environment completely unaccompanied, by friends or reputation. Since no one had any preconceived notions about my past, I figured I would have a little fun with my peers. I decided it was as good a time as any to begin my long career of decorated fabrication.
It had started innocently enough, changing my home town, then it slowly escalated to more grandiose fish-stories; prestigious accomplishments at incredibly young ages, a prodigy of music or academics, and so on. In all truth I never expected any of it to catch on, but I soon realized the masses’ infallible captivation with an embroidered tale. I became a small legend in my own right, a big fish in a small pond. I got ahead of myself; I admit I was quite partial to make-believe.
Eventually the façade fell. In the even of almost anything there is adversity and protestations. When one goes to the extreme, you receive extreme polar reactions, either they love it or they hate it. Though I was for the most part a success, there were those who disagreed. There were those who called me a liar, that I was obscurant and ashamed of my humble upbringings. They all asked why I was not content with the truth, with my reality. This was where I diverged from the majority. I was not ashamed, nowhere near it. I described it as a social experiment, the construction of a new reality. It was my protestation to the majority’s perception of a communal reality. I believed everyone to be incarcerated, always needing to be sure of reality and truth. But the reality is that truth means nothing in the collective sense. For me and for those who believed the tales, my reality is the stories I tell. I am characterized by them; they become part of my being.
You may ask why I chose this path, why I didn’t stick with the trivial existence I had in my past. Why, if I was so content with being invisible, did I turn the spotlight upon myself? The answer is this; though I had freedom in my insipid way of life, I have more freedom now. Nothing is beyond my reach, I can fabricate anything I wish and become something completely different, something distinctive. If everyday life is conventional, usual, and run of the mill, the stories derived from them are colloquies, bland and tasteless. When we have the freedom to imagine other worlds, other fantastical situations, and nothing is impossible. Everyone has a small desire to be immortal. People tell stories because the idea of our words living on when we’ve passed away is exciting. Everyone wants to live forever, perhaps not literally, but when we tell these tales that are passed down, told and retold even after our passing, it continues to give fuel to the fire and the flames can live on forever.
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