stories and other useless things - by jaron - the way home

There is a constant stream of words, narratives, conversations thirsty for attention or blood or whatever it is all stories seek, knocking on my mind's window. It's intrusive of course; any form of interruption battering down your door, living entity or not, would be sure to snap your focus. I'm prone to thirty-second waterlogged daydreams, removing my presence from the task or conversation at hand in remembrance of a misty-eyed passage of a book, a character alive or dead, hazy mirage sequences that writhe with an aliveness to warp my boundaries of memory until I can no longer distinguish between the real life experiences I have, and the stuff of fiction which bleeds through the edges. I have recounted stories that I, with a childlike earnestness, believed to have occurred to a friend of mine or existed as experiences in my past, only to discover through a great mental stumbling — they were words upon a page consumed long ago.

There is a constant stream of words, narratives, conversations thirsty for attention or blood or whatever it is all stories seek, knocking on my mind's window. It's intrusive of course; any form of interruption battering down your door, living entity or not, would be sure to snap your focus. I'm prone to thirty-second waterlogged daydreams, removing my presence from the task or conversation at hand in remembrance of a misty-eyed passage of a book, a character alive or dead, hazy mirage sequences that writhe with an aliveness to warp my boundaries of memory until I can no longer distinguish bet