I look out at an almost crescent moon that lights up the clear summer sky. The trees cast ghostly shadows in the dark as the breeze glides over and under. With the daily distractions asleep, the late hours of the night allow for lack of external influence and freedom of thought.
I have been reading contemporary fiction last few days. Reading is suppose to teach one about life, but really, what is the point of spending ones life reading about life from books? What is use of learning the same thing over and over again?
I like some contemporary fiction, however, reading only about the best moments of another persons life makes it hard to accept the mundane everyday reality. This experience, once drove me into wanting every moment to be extraordinary, however, in hindsight that was unrealistic.
Life it seems has long moments in between the highs that drag on and offer no emotional stimulus. These long hours in between the highs never get their fair page time in the novels I have read in recent months. There are some novels, I have read, where the mundane is depicted on the pages, in between the highs of the story. Such novels seldom slip into the mainstream. Most remain lost. One can experience the highs one after another but learns nothing about the space in between.