All too often it seems that writing fiction should be easier. After all, laying bare the feelings of our crazed minds is not something that everyone loves to do. Yet that is precisely what I seem to find easier. To imagine is a probability that is beyond. But to replicate the reality of a conjoined mass of thoughts is easier for me. Everywhere around me, at work and at play, at home and away, people clam into a towering tree of silence, their thoughts wreathed around them funereally, masks of enchantment clouding a desperate wish to live a life they believe they love.
And I see myself a spectator in this throng of nakedly disguised emotions. I can see the longing in a person, the desire of a want that is never to be in another, the desperate bid to be happy in some others, the human need to belong in most of them, the urge, the pity and the pathos all combining. And I can feel it as my own. That is the rub. I know not where I end, and the others begin. I feel like I feel the feelings of the world. And somehow, when I write all this, I know that this is not all mine to write. In a way, I write the other. That other is not me but you.