Reflections on the Surface of the Bog

People look for themselves in stories,
Characters sufficiently like them
But better in some valuable way.

Stories don’t have to turn out so well,
But there has to be some sense the world
Has been understood and been seen through

And what it is been partly resolved.
Stories hold choice aspects in focus,
Leaving the rest unspoken, unreal.

Any story, even the truest,
Is a kind of elaborate lie,
But you can elevate a story

By claiming it tells the truth, a truth,
As you can derogate any truth
By claiming that it’s just a story.

You’re not allowed to claim narrative,
Including character, is worthless,
Up to no good, parasite of mind.

Storytelling stays sacred to you,
In one or many of its genres,
Most dangerous, all-pervasive god.

You bring your idols to the waters,
And your victims, to sink them in peat,
But it’s no gateway, just more midden.

Story’s acids preserve and corrode,
And if black waters give back your face
And save your corpse, they’ll still gulp your life.