Those quiet, necessary moments

I’m talking about in fiction, when for whatever reason, everything stops for a moment, and it’s just there, everyone’s existing. They’re talking, having fun, dancing, singing, whatever, or running and playing, or laughing, or just anything. It’s a point where the plot holds its breath, and the humanity of the characters shine out, and they’re not just acting out some plot or something, they are just being. I think we need this, this reminder of what we are, in the middle of even and everything else. The story shouldn’t exist in a vacuum, we need to be reminded that these people in the lines, written out in narrative urgency, that even though they’re not real in the truth sense of the word, that they can be real somehow. Real in the way dreams are real, real in the way memories are real, real in the way the dead are real, that ghosts are real, that the future is real. Which is, in a way, not real at all and yet all too real.


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