Scatterbrainy

Philosophy(a) about literature, language and discarded moments from the junkyard of my mind

too real for reality

I need stories, for my life to be real.

this might be difficult to comprehend.

I may be difficult to comprehend.

Right-angled events and rationality

passwords and people who cannot be bothered,

There is no room for them in this life that I write.

So when given an empty space, a silent pause

I fill it with something that goes with the drama I am composing.

A hint of unrequited love, a pinch of betrayal. Add a spoonful of deception.

Then I feign pride and strength, despite the fictitious suffering I supposedly face.

And when you don't understand me I blame you in my mind.

Blame your inability to rise to the level of your literary doppelganger.

It is an easy game.

Different ingredients cook up the same every time.

I keep writing...

What if the person you're blaming also needs stories to make their life real?

Very good question.

I suppose we'd keep blaming each other until the "FIN" of our drama.