There is the world where gravity is gravity,
and the written world, where it may be not.
Stories slipping in silence through the still moments of the night, black text, glowing white screen, eyes hazed, words flow and reformat the physics of gravitational force. Words strung together one after another form impossibility, or, implausibility into another reality — fiction.
Words are dangerous in their ability to mimic truth. Lost in story, one can easily forget gravity is still law— that, writing is a gift of invention and freedom locked in a straight jacket, blindfolded, handcuffed, and surrendered even prior to battle. At best, a story has a beginning, middle, end, and readers who care to find meaning inside of it. At worst, it is a torturous illusion of fantastical maybe shattered the moment one looks away from the page.
Yet there is a delightful gift in sculpting, not writing, words — each night returning to the same story, as if you weren’t its author, and diving into its plot as if you’ve never read one of its letters, surprised by your plot twists, your character choices, your moments upon moments of reality reflected in another dimension: stories in sleepless solitude seducing slumber.
Life cannot be punctured, only minded.
Life becomes routine — adulthood swallows us all.
But words never grow up. Words can take risks we never would.
Illusion is not the enemy.
Failing to imagine what if is.
life with interest 