perhaps i am one of them, in some ways i should hope i would be.
so locked in a certain pattern, mind, life – deep in it, yet closed to all but it.
i want to be simply because they make the Story so much more interesting to read. they drive us mad, they seems so dense and foolish in their state of muse that we want to leap into the pages and shake their words straight, or at least do some basic editing. but we rarely do. at first i thought it was for fear, as i have met a fair share of these folks this past month. but it is not fear, at least of the expected. it is that i love these maniacs. they colour the pages when there are only words and offer us genuine characters in a world of bland regurgitation of that which we have already read between different sheets / covers.
on fiction, i just read life of pi. i enjoy the questions it brings up, the way it has the reader almost certainly preferring the more elaborate tale than that which sounds more “realistic”, the way it subtly associates this with religion. the core, no matter the story around it, is the thing to focus on. this is a beautiful and dangerous way of looking at things, simply because stories can be told about Truth and non-Truth, and fiction has a way of painting things in different colours, such that Truth may appear to be false, and that which is not Truth may appear truth.
wolves dressing up like sheep, sheep like wolves, and whole plethora of turkeys running about…