The Storyteller

I am the storyteller. I can make you think and feel whatever I want. A few well placed verbs and nouns and adjectives and you are mine. You see only what I want you to see. I play with you like a puppet master, I dangle you from strings. I pull on one and you see happiness; another, and you are sad.

A raised eyebrow, a sinister smile, a harsh word; you no longer like this character, and only because I told you not to like him. You don’t know him, only I do.
I write white, fluffy clouds onto a bright blue sky. I write a warm sun and it makes you happy. You’ve seen these clouds and this sky and this same sun many times before. You know its happiness. But you don’t see it unless I want you to. I could make you sad just as quickly by turning those white clouds to gray and covering sky and sun with these dark clouds. Now you see sadness.

I show you a dog playing with children. The children run and laugh. Or I show you a snarling dog, teeth bared. I show you a cat lounging in a window, bathed in sunlight. Moments later, that same cat could be hissing at you with its back arched. I know how these things make you feel and I manipulate you.

I use words to sculpt your feelings. You are putty in my hands. I mold your thoughts. And you, you believe everything I tell you. You have no choice.