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lirik lagu the narcissist cookbook - whoever felt moved to speak

the middle and older brothers watched the youngest brother run wailing from the towering shadow back to the safety of the farm, before a beam of stray daylight revealed the beast to be nothing more than a bird perched atop a gnarled, fallen tree

“the well of riches is not far,” croaked the skull, and so they pressed on deeper into the forest

every sundown, without fail
the people of st sasha ~
not all of thеm, but always some ~
would gather at the wеstern shore
at the base of a towering rock stack
and they would tell each other fairytales

there’s nothing unusual
about a society with a storytelling tradition
it is arguably a defining characteristic
of a society
to have a tapestry of stories
some true outright
most true in some form at some time ~
lessons and values and moral laws
codified as familiar tales
told and retold
and retold again
from one generation to the next
over centuries
except
here, on st sasha
things were done differently

of every fairytale told ~
and we are not talking hundreds here
we are likely talking hundreds of thousands ~
not one of them was ever written down
or stored away

there were no old favourites
brought out for special occassions
each tale was recited only once
and never, ever repeated

there were no designated storytellers either
as you might find in other communities
one evening it could be a fisherman
exhausted by a day’s work
who would yet feel compelled
to weave a fairytale
for those who came to watch the sun
sink into the western sea

the next sundown it might be a child
and the next somebody else
the role seemed to fall
to whoever felt moved to speak

and somebody always was

- lirik lagu the narcissist cookbook

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