I am currently reading catch-22, by Joseph Heller.
And I found myself being immersed into a strange
world filled of absurdisme, with pints of surrealism;
genres that I have at heart. And I do think that while
writing this piece, my mind was still planning
into the dimensional space of this book.
“Sometimes, when I can’t seem to come up with something deem as being the norm for writing a piece, I abandon myself to whatever my mind commands during the process of drafting something; where most of the time, the sentences seem to be bits of some kind of analysis I have unconsciously stored into my random access memory. In the end, it becomes a piece rooted into absurdisme, conquest, and surrealism. It becomes pure invention of a genre that begs to become concrete. And whether this writing experiment works or not as to fit the certainty of pleasuring the mind of readers, I personally think, that it offers the evading experience needed to achieve the finality of what reading fiction has to offer.”
Why you love reading fiction? Because of time.
Time! What’s time?
A fiction! Say . . .The process.
What’s the process then?
The writer thinks. The writer writes. The writer crafts. Time. Then, the reader reads, and, it’s a story with a start and finish, compressed into one whole book. Time.
No. There’s more. There’s more. Tell. A book. A creation. A subtle aesthetic design.
Then there it is. And what if
What if we can’t seem to feel
That these filmsical skies seal
A spell with which we can’t deal
Hidden under glows of sun
And glows of moonlit beam
Of this one thing that wants to be seen
But still remain lock away behind screen
And where one can only feel its eye upon us
When attuned with it with all of our senses
With all of our mental capabilities
What would have you done
If ever you were all alone
Into a cold and darkening void
Accessing remotely to everything
What would you have done?
That is the question