I am often the best historic character that the avid historian would have liked to pursue. Forever in my every move I leave behind hints to the “Why?” and the “What else?”. There is lesser delight in living than in playing to this lean picture of a historian frothing at his mouth with excitement as I make choices and burn bridges. His sheer delight when he finds the crumbs I dropped to lead him to the inner workings of my mind and then lead him on to other alcoves of my psyche is quite a reward found largely missing in a life lived for a single audience. Thus I seduce him with stray excerpts of conversation about the adventure I am about to undertake, or the sin I am about to commit which none shall know and he can pride in being the only one who figured it out after onerous pondering and research. My every moue will have him wait with bated breath wondering on whom will the fires of wrath descend.
This historian feels my pain because he wants to know more. He exults in my victories for he doesn’t want the adventure of the scent he is tracking to die down. He assiduously records my every move and my every thought. He gives my life’s every single act a voice of a narrator who himself will find a voice a few centuries hence. Such is the voice he lends that if I were witness to my life retold, I would aspire to live like that all over again.