When we remember a book
we remember our favorite parts
we don’t remember the rest
we cut off the crust
skip the foreplay
surgically remove the soul
and burn the bridges that got us there.
The funny thing about fiction
is that it is the only way
that we know we are real, right?
Our histories, our stories
the stories we tell ourselves
that’s the thing of it.
You remember Shakespeare
when the audience would know
what a character would not?
That wasn’t meant
just as a cute plot device
that was meant to teach
humility by exposing
the flaws and limited nature of humanity.
That is why it is called the humanities
and not
made up stories and dyes on canvas
sound waves production
or clay construction
it is the study of us
like psychology and anatonmy.
Without narratives
we cannot know anything.
Without a fictional world
inventions cannot occur.
We need this
we need the lies to survive.
Growth by the imagination.
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