The Stories We Tell Ourselves By Kine Fall

“It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.”

― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

He says, “I’m young, I’m not ready for all that.”

I am staring into his troubled and fearful eyes. Why would he say such things when all I asked for was the truth about his intention? My life is not dictated by the norms of society. Why would he believe that about me? Its because I’m a woman,  he thinks we are all the same.  There is a story that he is writing in his head:

 Here is a beautiful woman, a bit prettier than the last. I’ve never held someone with skin aglow like bronze, hair so dark like the music I adore. Her lips, drawn by the Gods to fit like a puzzle against mine. Oh and she listens to classics, Tchaikovsky and Debussy… what a gem she is. This woman has the power to break my heart, there is no way I can love her. She will try her best to keep me satisfied, but all I can do is sail her vessel and frolic for pleasure. I can’t give her anything more, what I have to offer is not enough. I am a troll at the bottom of a bridge, whistling away my wretched songs. Full of darkness and misery is my heart, I will never heal from the torment and agony my first love has left me… and now I am cursed to wander with goddesses of this earth who can never fill this void. Oh what a fool I must be, to live in such misery. There is no light of hope in this life for me.

My assumptions get the best of me, and so I too self narrate:

Better be careful with this one, I’m surely not the only fox that’s barked up his tree. Look at those piercing green eyes, how they glow in the moonlight… his lips must have been carved by the god themselves, how they fit mine so sweetly. He must surely be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, hoping to get the best of me. I can feel his intense gaze, almost choking the love out of me. I shall not surrender. My heart is so fragile, a porcelain heirloom passing it off to just anyone would only cause it to chip and crack. I’ve not enough glue left to repair it this time. You must not become attached. Do not let him in. If you do you will suffer, this time you wont be able to live through it. You are a coward, just stay away. You think too much. You are so weird. Nobody will ever understand you. Your wasting your time. You will never be loved.

The stories we create in our heads linger with the salty wind beneath our lips, whispering… “Do not fall in love”.  Time is set, and we take our parts in a grand play of unrequited lovers. We do our best to improvise the lines and action, but nothing outside ourselves can change fate. He holds me as we lean against great grandfather tree, the roots protect us from  floating off into the night. Our pupils dilate, like the twinkling of the stars and we stare silently into galaxies that have yet to be explored. Worn out souls with forgotten innocence that have left us cold, and hungry. We howl together in the night, fighting off the feelings we can only remember as pain. As the twirling of time flows, love festers locked in its protective cage… as long as the stories we tell ourselves remain the same.

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