fictions

As I sit here reading the words of others, the fictions that engage so intimately with my mind. I see how a story can erupt from someone like a demon ousted by a priest. How the people and characters swarm the mind and life of the writer and demand a life of their own outside of the crowded head. It is almost a relief to witness the mind's ink finally breath life into a page and let the fiction play out in the imagination of others.

I find myself caring about people that I know not to exist. Sometimes even brought to the point of fear, anger or grief. How intimate the connection must be for writers and their mistress of fiction. A beauty or horror laying hidden only to be exposed like a common scandal for all to see and dissected under a microscope.

I wish I had the patience to write in this manner. I myself sometimes feel this complusion to write. It takes over and the words slowly leak out like the first quiet drops of rain before the omnious grey electric storm begins and the pitter patter quickly turns to uncontrollable banter.

Ha here I go again.