Stories exist; Like people
each unique in the way all stories differ
yet can be categorized

A story can provide
an elegant solution
to tie up the loose ends
and weave a Satisfying ending
fantasy can provide
a comforting conclusion
(but can never touch the bounds of reality)

So many are drawn to Tragedies
to horror and conflicts
and I wonder our reasons; our Justifications
for making something that sends a shiver down our spine
or our fascination with reading
books that have tears staining the pages

Perhaps we all have that sliver of sadistic glee
Which we try to stifle in the interests of society
A simple, uncomplicated desire to watch others in pain
And the fact that the words on the page are unreal;
Characters are fictional
Is an excuse to keep our guilty consciences at bay
An excuse to keep away from the disdain of society

Perhaps we create stories
To project ourselves on to others
Who lead far more interesting lives than us
Stories to convince ourselves
that we’re important; that we matter
Even if, statistically,
We wouldn’t even be a fraction of grain relative
To the vast reality of the universe

Whatever Justifications for our actions we give
we make stories
we will make stories
else it is my firm belief
that all minds would collapse