Fiction arises from my dreamy mind
Where a pathway opens for me to find –
New moons, new suns, new planets, new worlds;
New faces, new lives, things of new kind.
I look around and all that I can see
Is something that surfaces beyond me
Where my senses travel into magical worlds,
And where it is the imagination set free.
These fantasies that devours my mind
With imageries of whole new find
That shoots me far off galactic worlds
To find myself into a new era kind.
Stars that shine red is all that I can see
Morphing faces is all that surround me
Where I am omniscience into strange worlds
As I unleash my mind to set the words free.
I plunge into a hive of fictional data,
Alongside dancing colloquial spectral
Where everything become luminescent
For fiction to arise from my dreamy mind.
For some times now I’ve been reading articles about fiction being treated like non-fiction. But for goddamn sake, when did fiction fell into those kinds of hands? Like really! What is happening around these days? Authors of fiction lie, authors of fiction make-up stories, authors of fiction do all kinds of random things here and there as to be inspired, authors of fiction invent all sorts of things as to create a whole world of fantasy, but in none of the case, do authors of fiction write non-fiction, and this, when they have clearly stipulated that what has been penned down or typed are works of fiction.
It’s called fiction for a reason, you see, it’s art for the sake of art, it’s fiction for the sake of fiction. And what other writers — of type essayist, journalistic, or literary critics write, are the only elements from the work that needs to be treated as non-fiction. I do think that there have been some misinterpretation of fictional work alongside the other creative writings. Works of fiction are big big lies and all made up stories meant to tickle the fanciness of readers; a simple material for evasion, and as well as distraction, and that’s all. Like what, everything is getting more and more absurd these days.
