I have 8 drafts…

I have eight drafts sitting in my wordpress site’s “draft” folder. Fitting place, right?

I think the things I wrote about are nonsensical. Maybe they’re not.

I remember a couple of the drafts.

The political revolution I was going to start…

The philosophical theory I would debut…

The fiction story I would publish…

A couple of these things I would like to see to the end. Meaning I would like to realize a few of these dreams, if not all of them. Probably not the first, though. Why? It’s hard to realize political change. That’s why.

I believe in fictional things sometimes. I mean, sometimes the fictional is the best. The fictional is sometimes the ideal of our world, and that is the nicest thing to experience, especially as compared to the world as it exists.

And the philosophy of that is somewhat unreal. But it’s real at the same time. Because fiction is real, right?

I am thinking of a book I’m reading. It’s a Leo Tolstoy book. I like it, mostly because it’s a far-away world that I have never experienced. Thus, I like the ficitonality of it. It’s called Anna Karenina.

Thus, such a philosophy would be interesting to explore.

I was thinking as well of publishing some sort of fictional book. I’ve been writing a lot in Spanish. That is good.

Indeed, Spanish is a nice language. Some people think I have a style similar to Bolaño in Spanish. I humbly accept the comparison, though I’ve never read him.

It’s something like unreal fiction, at least so I hear. That is his style. Apparently, it’s mine, too.

I think I’m able to write pretty easily. That is, because I can procure a blog post in less than twenty minutes. No, not only because of that. But I like writing.

Because I have a command of logical connectors? No, probably, not. That is not what makes fiction either. So what makes fiction?

A sense that something is unreal? A sense of fluidity? A sense of felt experience?

The reality is that it can be all of these things at once, without a person knowing any of them. Or it could be other things, too.

Writers don’t experience these things while writing, at least I never have. Where I feel the same sense that I do when I read a great novel. During that time when I have read good novels, I have never felt the same as I do when I write. When I write I feel differently. Writing is a different act than reading. We’ll call it another act of the same play, perhaps.

Ideas are part of that same play, but perhaps a different act as well.

Philosophy might be part of that same play. But perhaps that is another act, too.

Thus, life is an act-by-act play, I think. The thing is, that we don’t know which act is coming next, I guess. Or what act is in play at the current moment. I guess it seems like abstract things can be all happening at once. But perhaps it’s up to us to determine, in which act we exist at this moment.