Sometimes I feel like I’m an outsider in my own skin.
An observer peering inside, voyeuristic, but not quite involved. Perennially subjected to the whims and qualms of people living around me– all characters kept unaware under the bright lure of their own stories; novelty disintegrating, plot lines fading, dialogue banal and prosaic.
Yet all are characters nonetheless.
Is reality a story to be told, or to be heard? Is a story a story without an ending?
Can a character be within, and without?