Books are parallel dimensions, interwoven shades of reality hammered by our heads. It is a twitch in our brain that spurts out at contemplative junctures to say those right words that often end up being unsaid. They are also acts that never happened, the what ifs, and the aftermath of those chances we missed, and failed to helm into a concrete form. They are the action missing from our lives. They are the quiet in our loud.
Books are what we demand of ourselves. And writing one makes us be at peace, as if something happened in an aloof land of an alien dimension at least. And the readers feel the materiality kicking in that is as awesome as it sounds on paper, but too amazing to be true. Yet the very idea of it happening on a rad planet where all the action thrives, stuns our kind beyond limit.
When you write a chapter of your life amongst those leaflets, they are nothing but a mere form of the closest truth your head could register. Sometimes unanswered questions, sometimes differently answered ones. It fuels on your imagination and ends up becoming a disparate universe of possibilities. A dimension where a thing happened differently, an enclave where our choices were chosen differently. A place in the stars that eludes our bleak life.
That’s what the place is. In our multiverse of prospects, it’s the one that sounds less bland. It’s the one that is all spiced up, and is all spruced down to appear presentable. It is a lie where all the action is. It is a story that doesn’t suck. Because, the truth is, our real life does.