everything, every moment leads up to other moments, leads up to other moments
you ever read something and later realize that it was a dream you had. or maybe a memory you had was actually something from a book or a movie or a dream or something like that. it makes me wonder about what makes experiences reality really ours, and does fiction embed itself more deeply inside of us, and how do we milk experiences, how do we steal and burn our world around us to place it into fiction?
Anyone that ever knows a writer knows that their life isn’t theirs anymore, it’s all fodder for story things, all the things they say get filed away. we writers steal from those around us, emotional vampires, and we do it coldly and calculating. when we write down these jottings we write with empathy and for the characters and like method actors we feel everything so deeply in that moment. But in real life? In real life? We are cold and calculating and observing and stealing and rearranging.
your memories aren’t yours anymore if you know a writer, you words aren’t yours anymore, nothing is yours anymore, once you speak the writer absorbs, takes it all in. and oh we’ve become so good at this, so good at pretending to be a good ear, to listen and be calming and trust worthy, and all the while inside we are placing it, compartmentalizing it, internalizing it so it becomes ours, we swallow what other people spit out and steal it and make it our own.
…only to push it on out into fictional format where someone will read it, and add it to the plurality of their experiences and then think that some thing might’ve really happened to them, and absorb them as memories, we buy and sell other lives and there is always someone someone who wants to eat it up, to devour it whole