Unreliable Narration

I feel like one of those old divers, you know the guys in the metal suits? The ones with the big round helmet with the gridded faceplate and a metal starfish shaped body that was connected to an umbilical which fed the inhabitant oxygen and no doubt other life sustaining gases. Just like one of those, floating around at the bottom of the ocean, totally listless yet connected to something, something familiar. Never quite drifting away, but never quite really being pulled back to safety. Peering through the gridded faceplate into the murky depths, unsure of what could lay in wait, out there in the dark and the cold. The only certainty is that it is definitely dark, and definitely cold.

Outside looking in.

The unseen observer.

The fly on the wall.

The unreliable narrator.

Know what I mean? I am fully aware that I lie in the belly of the beast, I see it with both eyes as clear as day, feel it in my heart and at the very core of my being. Yet something is so hardened to its horrors that its almost as if its not actually happening, like its someone elses life and I am just watching a movie or reading it in a magazine, looking on as the pitiful events unfold right before my eyes. It can't be indifference? So when does the bird come home to roost? When to pay the piper? I ask myself daily if I really am being as strong as I think I am, or if in fact my heart has become so hardened to the harsh realities of things so as to become almost unreachable by them. I cannot think that I am that well prepared.

Many an insulating conceit has proved effective up to now. Best to I continue to shroud myself in those and take refuge in what appears to the outside than to contemplate what manner of foul beast may lurk within.

Yours,

The Unreliable Narrator