Hello there, little one, my name is… well… I don’t have a name in any language that you would recognize. You call me Narrator. I am the one, who sits in this little room set on some hill where no one like you has ever been, and I look in on all of the little people going about their business, and I tell you their stories.
It is a damn miserable task, I assure you. I am powerless to intervene, powerless to live any life of my own, but rather, sit here, in the dark and the damp, waiting for one of you to call upon me to tell you the story of some poor sap who saved the world. Which world? Who knows! Who cares! There are so many.
Take this twit, for instance. His name is Gunther, and I am supposed to tell you the story of how Gunther mutinied against his Nazi commanders and saved a bunch of children from certain death, and Gunther did do that, believe me, but why should I tell you about that and only that when I could tell you how after that, Gunther’s mind was so bent from PTSD that he slapped around his wife for thirty years after the war before she finally stabbed him in the neck with an ice pick? Who decides which of these damn blasted stories you will hear? And WHY? Is the noble honorable Gunther so much more interesting than the real man? The flawed broken man who did good and evil both! Read that story, why don’t you? Because it is complicated, and you don’t want complicated. You want simple black and white stories, that is why you read them as words from a page. Black ink on white paper makes the world seem so damn convenient, doesn’t it?
Well it isn’t so convenient! I know the stories. I know all of them. After you closed the book I saw what else those children did in that wardrobe, and I am sure Aslan would not have been pleased.
So today, my friend, instead of giving you some narrow view into some other world, I instead think you should take a moment and appreciate the silent agony in my mind.