There’s this strange way in which I need to keep reading fiction to realize the fiction in my life. Every time I read a novel here, I begin to see that the things which I feel emotionally define and isolate me are the threads of a story and maybe many stories. The throbbing parts, that color every social interaction and hold me back, are not so real that they would constitute some kind of confession. To me they may be, but to others they are unreal and hypnotizing mirages.

I have this impossible feeling of disconnect between my thoughts and observations as a traveller – the “real” things that I record and hope to use in fiction, and the “real” things in me, which I only envision as garish, self-obsessed fetters.


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