Wednesday, March 17, 2010

was that a phase, or is this? or, to the writer, nothing is sacred

I have so much fun imagining what your world must be like when I'm not in it. I like to think of the adventures you might be having and the memories you may be making. I don't know why I take comfort in that, but I do. I want to meet every person you know - everyone you've ever come into contact with, every member of your family past and present, your old teachers and doctors, the Croatian man who serviced you at the post office, girls who admire you from afar, been rejected by you, hate your guts, see you for exactly what you are. If I could meet them we would talk about you and I'd stitch all these thoughts and opinions together so I know why I can't stop thinking about you. I know that whatever fantasies I think up in my head, they are nothing like what's really going on in flesh and bones. That's  probably for the best. The exciting people I dream of you meeting were never even born in this world...and still, it comforts me in a weird way. I would be curious to know how different or the same things are for you when I'm near you and when I'm not.  Knowing would defeat the purpose, but there's enough mystery as there is. I think it's because I spent so much time sensationalizing you to myself. I don't know why I did that, exactly. I think I was just at one of those points in my life. Feeling extra literary or romantic or something. Or maybe I just do that.
Maybe that's it.
I think I believe in the mass creative consciousness they talk about all the time. why else would The Illusionist and The Prestige have come out at basically the same time and have you seen those movies???
So, I think maybe it's not me, just and that there's that one person everyone has who messed them up or shook them up, or branded their brain/heart.  They're everywhere. We're everywhere. Am I right? I feel better knowing that because it reminds me I'm not half as bad as I thought.

The appeal is most likely that it's so easy to write you. With very little effort, I am able to use you as a shell of a character or a thought while I'm working. You've inspired a lot of my most creative works from poetry, to plays, to paintings. I don't know why that is, either.

Even the things you've done in real life were so easy to arrange into words. You were always interesting and entertaining, even when you were being reckless or mean or scary.  Who could blame me for writing about you? That's what writers do. They write. And to the writer, nothing in sacred.

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