I got on the train at the designated time, sat on my assigned seat. As I was placing my backpack on the rack, a new voice appeared in my head.
A deep voice with a sense of wisdom and it started narrating my actions as they happen.
It had a sense of company, of togetherness that makes you want to face the world knowing that no matter what happens, or where you end up being, there is someone watching over your every step, turning it into a narrative worthy of being read out loud.
His articulate rhyming words were recounting every move I made like I would pass my hand through my hair and a second later it says “As he rested his back on his comfortable seat, his hair was longing for a sensual knead.” I smile for the way he put it.
The second became a fraction until it became synchronised. It became one step ahead and to keep the sync my moves have sped.
I listen. I try to follow, I gasp to keep the sync. I open the window, I throw my book. It felt right. It felt easy. I didn’t even need to look.
It has been a while since I had my own personal narrator. I don’t remember when it started but I don’t have time for such existential bullshit, I need to speed up, I need to keep going, I can’t afford to lose this company, I don’t want to get back to a silent zone.
Alone, a word I have never known. I have always been blessed with the narrator’s voice, I wonder if at some point I did things on my own, was I ever able to race it, “Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell myself, “who would want to lose such wealth.”
The train is going faster, the commands are getting louder, to follow my own narrative I struggle.
A narration or a dictation remains a question of perception, “I would call it guidance, spiritual guidance,” said the voice.
I am sat in my designated seat, in my pre-booked journey. I am told it is coming to an end.
Z... space 