We’re tricked into thinking that beautiful pauses in life should stretch. It’s not their purpose to do that. Instead, they only exist to make us happy every once in a while. We shouldn’t expect more than that of them. They’re like kisses: they are one-second happenings and lifetime memories.
On the other hand, what should indeed last forever, what truly should have steadiness and everlasting flare, are people: absolutely ordinary, imperfect people. Ones who you’ll fight with every now and then, but ones whom the idea of going home to doesn’t irk, doesn’t agitate, doesn’t make you second guess your judgments. People whom you live with. Family.
That was from the post Real Fiction, now published in my book. Some of the most heartwarming memories there..
Many said before that the ibhog who writes in this blog is himself fictitious. It wasn’t truly asserted before, though. No one really knows ibhog, the real, or the imaginary. Not even his imaginary friends, and not even himself.
But you know what? An imaginary character is as beautiful as the idea of someone. Pure, detached from concrete reality, from circumstances, from imperfections. You can talk with that figment of your imagination, fight with them, and at times, just sleep in their arms. You can loiter in the warm corners of your muse, and live your own reality. To the fullest, to its farthest farthing. To the depth of a witness’s sigh, even if they were imaginary too. You can do what you wish with them and to them. You can even buy them gifts in your actual real world, even if those will forever stay in hiding. And much more. All of it.
Just before you go insane.