FICTION

I hope that you're all happy. Yes, all of you. Thanks for subjecting me to scrutinize literature from the 1600s - not to mention fictitious literature. I can't say that I understand the benefit of all this. Why should we be so concerned with fiction? Fake people, fake lives, fake places. There are real lives to live, real places to visit, real people to meet. I'm especially surprised that I'm being assigned this, considering this progressive culture we live in (hope you can see my sarcasm, as I don't really see a lot of worthwhile progress being made). Shut up Graham, you're not doing anything to help either. Dear mind, you are correct. Why must I be so agitated by inanimate objects, like books? Because I have to find paths within the mind that can lead me to the goals. But I can't find the paths - it's too foggy! I'm too tired. My brain can't take many more steps. Oh, how I want some euphoria! A piece of me is missing which I desire to have at the moment. Maybe not a piece of me, but a piece which was implanted by an external force inside of me, which is now absent. Yes, that's what it is. (sigh) I actually kind of miss when I didn't correct myself on what I was saying all of the time.  What's the point of unraveling when I'm left empty handed? What's the point if I don't even know what this external force is? Something in me says it's God. Honestly, it seems as though life is spent taking guesses at who God is. I actually want to see who God is, I think? Can I just see it already? How can something finite like a human find something which is infinite? You don't become more strong the more you endure pain. At least, you don't gain absolute strength. Until somebody finds absolute strength, I don't really care about gradually gaining more strength. Why should I even gain more when I can't have it all? Am I selfish for asking that? I just want the truth, instead of a myth for once.