Don Quixote is often referred to as the greatest story of all time. In summary, it relates the tale of a man who believes his life to be a great romance which he has read about in his books. He traverses the surrounding land picking fights of honor, winning over ladies, acquiring honor. He embodies errantry and chivalry. The drawback to his misadventures is their truth. They are completely fabricated.
Besides the expository nature of this blog, I occasionally dabble in fiction. I enjoy fiction because it affords the opportunity to create. It is a playing field for one's own wishes or ideas or regrets. It lends passage to stray realities and their respective plots and characters. I am (in theory) the master of the fate of each and every entity on which I choose to bestow the allowance of birth and a life thereafter.
These worlds, of course, lie entirely in my mind. My adventures may be had from the comfort of an easy chair. No one could know what battles were fought behind my eyes or what romances brewed in the back of my brain. I own, in this awkward stage of existence wherein I totter on the edge of adulthood, a certain air of respectability. That is to say it is only decent that I decide to keep these fancies right where they belong: in my mind.
(And I am certainly lost in my mind often enough).
I sometimes remember my life as a child. I regret my regression into a world entirely of my own making. Still, it is incredible to witness in retrospect a person who could become so totally lost in a made-up world. I could even believe that these false worlds were true. The state of my mental wanderings were ineluctably true. What we believe is our truth.
It causes me to wonder, if in my young life, without the still limited experience and knowledge I have now acquired, I could invent worlds of considerable detail, then what, pray tell is my mind currently capable of?
There is no dignity in the project of which I'm sure you have guessed that I intend to endeavor. It is a journey into unfettered imagination. I will unbridle my pride and let my mind loose and allow my actions to follow suit.
What then would the childish play of a non-child do for my own literary hopes?
I'll let you know.
I shall play pretend.
These worlds, of course, lie entirely in my mind. My adventures may be had from the comfort of an easy chair. No one could know what battles were fought behind my eyes or what romances brewed in the back of my brain. I own, in this awkward stage of existence wherein I totter on the edge of adulthood, a certain air of respectability. That is to say it is only decent that I decide to keep these fancies right where they belong: in my mind.
(And I am certainly lost in my mind often enough).
I sometimes remember my life as a child. I regret my regression into a world entirely of my own making. Still, it is incredible to witness in retrospect a person who could become so totally lost in a made-up world. I could even believe that these false worlds were true. The state of my mental wanderings were ineluctably true. What we believe is our truth.
It causes me to wonder, if in my young life, without the still limited experience and knowledge I have now acquired, I could invent worlds of considerable detail, then what, pray tell is my mind currently capable of?
There is no dignity in the project of which I'm sure you have guessed that I intend to endeavor. It is a journey into unfettered imagination. I will unbridle my pride and let my mind loose and allow my actions to follow suit.
What then would the childish play of a non-child do for my own literary hopes?
I'll let you know.
I shall play pretend.
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