I’ve re-entered Storyland. Outside, waves pound the crisp, clean sand; the sun shines through the day and the moon fills the night. Outside it is paradise.
In here, the narrator of Storyland lives in darkness. Shades of grey dim the bright lights of day as I curl into a ball in desperate need of warmth.
That’s a little dramatic, but you get the gist.
I am home again and have found that home is Storyland. All of a sudden I have stories about relationships, money, work, family, you name it – they all come ready-made and packaged neatly in Pandora’s boxes.
Like any good story, what they lack in truth they make up for in drama; and I find myself as principal actor, director, writer and producer of a black comedy that I just know I’ll find funny when I make it out into the audience.
But first I need to wake up. First I need to realise that none of it is true, even though it seems so real. Before I landed here, I was playing a role in a mystery – an adventure that could have gone in any direction at any moment, and wherever it went I would have been happy. Now I think I know what I want and so my role has changed – now I try to run the show in the hope that the improbable plot has a predictable end.
You see, it is still a mystery, only my interpretation of it has changed. Everything remains as improbable as ever, only now I imagine I have some control over it. And that is a story to write home about.