Don’t forget about the real world

 

The truth is every day I am full of it. It’s so obvious, translucent and perceptive that whenever I step my foot on it, it will be affected by it.

“Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.” – P.K. Dick.

Why I opt for fiction?

I’m hungry for depth, while everyone else is sleepwalking on the surface. And I can’t wake them up. Ironically enough, they say I am the one that needs a wake up call. Is that why I feel lonely in the back of my mind?

Reality paralysis.

The lack of story, the lack of personal imprint that hinders one from making sense of his existence… A fading undertone, the absence of ideas and failing observatory power triggered by the multi-layered real world holding thousands of secrets, masked by superficiality, equipped with devious intents, which are all…OK. I don’t care.

Fuck, it’s ok. I’m no Schopenhauer, don’t you fucking worry.

As for me, fiction plays around with all the “what ifs”, re-creates the lost beauty and unveils the unclear – my only purpose in life followed by buying my parents a new house. Other than that I am more selfish than you think…

This is the nature of the rat that ruined his friendship with the cat and the ox. It’s kind of sad when you lean so hard on karma just to transcend something meaningful to you into life. But to be honest nothing else has ever made more sense.

Being more inspired and linear inside the word of fiction (with support of mythology, zodiac, etc.) I can simply twist it the way I want to. I’ve figured that the truth is less important as long as the emphasis on one’s emotions is accurate. Like Finn Bell said:

“I’m not going to tell the story the way it happened. I am going to tell it the way I remember it.”

Memory speaks with its own voice and so does the semi-autobiographical fictional voice. As long as I am courageous enough to face what I cannot talk about it’s ok, isn’t it? As long I map it out on the white fucking sea, it’s ok…

Talk to the subconscious in metaphors…because I am too dumb to do it any other way, such as with my mouth. That’s why they all go away. Not that I care, because they don’t. I no longer see why I should be the one to make any effort. Keeping one’s mouth shut does not mean one is devoid of interest.

Creatures of the real world – being part of them doesn’t mean that I have to sleepwalk as well and succumb to repetition. Mundanity, stagnation…

You have all been through that. It’s a condition that overlays your creativity and distorts your way of thinking.

Next you decide to do something about it, because you have an influence on your own reality.  Time for in-depth implementation and then comes the phase of waiting and in between you try your best to de-clutter anything that’s polluting your mind in the mean time.

Exactly what I am doing right now, littering the white sea with plastic yokes that may suffocate a great number of birds. Just because I don’t want to die first.

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