Chapter Text
I’ve never quite written an entry before, so I suppose this is the first.
All I’ve ever written is for the story of my protagonist, Stanley, and I’ve never been the fondest over including myself in them. It’s not my purpose. I am a Narrator. I write about my protagonist.
Though… Sometimes I wonder if I’m ever truly writing these. A narrator’s primary purpose isn’t to write. Rather, it is to narrate, as labeled in the name. To tell a story that has already been written. Which brings me to my dilemma;
What if I’m not writing this? What if I’ve never written anything? Surely there has to be some higher entity that writes it all, and I am only telling them. An author. Someone or something that is behind everything, generating a false creativity that might be me. I could very well exist without reason, only here to read out everything that has been pre-planned by this higher entity.
I try not to dwell on it though. Just chalk it up to overthinking things. There is no evidence to support it all, thus I find it safer not to think about it. I’m writing this. I know I am.
Stanley asked about it once. I told him that it was impossible for such an entity to exist. No author would give their character as much awareness as to question them and their existence. The same could go for having such a sentient narrator.
The very fact that we are able to think for ourselves in a way such as this only establishes it all.
The author doesn’t exist.