I believe in fiction. Yes, I believe in made up stories. It is difficult to express through non-fiction, but I’ll attempt. When my own story becomes too exhausting to follow, I find it refreshing to follow another. Opening a good book is lighting the deprived corner of my mind that longs all day for illumination: my imagination. It thrives on film and television, which tell the stories my own reality cannot.
Upon turning the first page of a great book, the outside world evaporates. It becomes a separate piece of work, to be finished later. I’m young and ridiculous and rely on procrastination to finish things, so the real world waits for me, and I fend it off for as long as possible. Beautiful, biting stories lead me far away from the realms of mathematics and things I just can’t comprehend.
Alas, the only instance I can really conquer distraction is when I am absorbed in it. Complete immersion in someone else’s imagination jumpstarts my own, and I want to counter the beauty. The work that will seemingly shape my future lies low, but not forgotten, ever rotting on my agenda like some horrible fungus that grows with time. The reality of the situation is that “story time is over.” But, for me, that’s never true. Everything I do is susceptible to be captured in writing; it’s a huge, intricate plot that’ll only end when my heart stops.
There’s a solid base to be grasped, but I wish to strike what’s beneath it. I understand that non-fiction is unblemished fact, but fiction, for me, conveys a truth unmentionable anyplace but deep within the core of its story, like some sleeping volcano emitting waves of subtle poison, ever-swelling. Eventually it erupts: Magma strikes ground and scorches my hand, and I drop my book with watering eyes, feeling a message that blisters from an idea that burns. So long as these wounds are lasting, I believe in fiction.
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