Fiction is helplessly entangled with truth of some kind.
Much in the same way that Orson Scott Card believes the reader takes in the fictitious material and constructs something in his mind such that he connects with it, identifies with it. And in that sense, fiction becomes reality for everyone, although everyone has different realities.
And I think that’s the case for nearly everything in life: all we have are our own perceptions – that’s what we believe is the truth. Even in the event the other party is open to clarifying things with us, at best we come away with the impression that we are on the same page.
Which is to say,
on that day when she told me her default state is not brokenness,
and that she was through with us, because she had moved on from whatever was clutching at her skirts
I didn’t need to cry.
In that sense, blame is just a dust mote in the sun. It dances all around us in the heat of things.
How do we try to catch it in our hands and hurl it at someone else, when they already inhale it
daily, weekly, monthly,
since the time they existed
before we even caught fire?
How could I blame?
What fault is there to find, when it is merely impressions that needed refining?
Time passes as time always does, regardless of us.
It reminds me that there is so much else that’s going on in the world – so many possibilities of things to do, and places to see.
When I am crumbling under the inner voices of self-blame,
I could take a day-trip to Malaysia.
When it gets hard to breathe,
I could continue writing my plays.
When I still can’t quite convince myself
I could work at a florist’s.
Could talk to the hawker centre uncles.
not the world’s most
Explore Dakota’s neighbourhood.
Visit a museum.
anything but knife to skin.
Maybe it’s ironic then, that after such a long time,
when Love finally found me,
it sounds like fiction.
Peppered with truths, no doubt
Which tales of fiction will bring me bearable pain, and which ones would be unbearable?
Will I find out in time before I’m blown out
like a lightbulb out of ideas
left to tread my glass shards?
Am I destined to be delusional my whole life?
understand that there is only so much I can believe.
And until the tables turn and set us spinning in different directions, just know that
in this very moment,
I really, truly do love you.
But Love is not perfect and will sometimes forget
when you need to hear it most
“You are beautiful.”
Do not forget this.
– When Love Arrives, by Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye