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I've been slacking. This one was just sort of... what it says on the tin, staring out the window at the lovely, lovely New England autumn and waiting for my sister to be ready to go to the Renaissance Faire (worth it, if you're wondering). Next time, less babbling and more fiction.

Everything is in a bubble - it's like a falling leaf, but there are millions of them, floating past each other in all directions, through each other but never intersecting on any real plane. This is the truth of the first world. They are all removed from each other by only a fraction of a reality, but it's just enough - they intersect in every direction but one.

You're in one of them, watching the others drift by. The pockets of empty space are the worst, where you can see no other small piece of reality, only the edge of infinity on your plane of lonely existence, but those are getting more and more infrequent all the time, until you wish and wonder for those moments of terror and loneliness; this is the truth of the worlds we inhabit.

The currents fall, they flow, they intersect unhappily and happily. The emotions of the bubbles don't effect the currents, though maybe they should. It would make the world a more chaotic place, and that might help. It might also hurt - what do we know, after all, about the world? You could fill a glass of water with the most tightly packed of any substance, destroy all the spaces between it with stuff, reality, and substance; nothing would matter to our sense of self.

The knowledge, after all, is tangential to the reality of it.

I have been reading too much mathematical stuff. This is probably true.

I write fiction; I don't like lies. It is as pointed out by the lovely Ursula le Guin; science fiction (or, as Lewis put it, scientifiction) writers throw a pack of lies down, a figment of imagination privvy only to them and all th eworld they share it with, a pack of untruths and airy imaginings, and they say "There! That is the truth!" And it's right, and it's true, and it's far better than those who go around shouting about what they believe the real world to be, warning us of the dangers of imagination, the dangers of their imagination, because when they are not in control, they are afraid.

Fiction tells the truth; it's far more reliable than fact, sometimes.

Where else could I tell you all about the guitar in my corner, how he's called Sean, how his voice is unlike my own but that's the way it goes-- the world says guitars are female, but he disagrees. I disagree, anyway.

Or how the trees glint more beautifully than gems, when the light is on them in the wind. Any wind.

I think we treasure polished stone more than trees because trees pass. They live, they die, and sometimes their leaves don't shine. But doesn't that make the moments when they're alive all the more beautiful?

Why don't we propose to love with trees? Why don't we propose to love with a song, with a smile, with something as passing and fragile and eternal as we are? Why use rocks? Why not ice?

I always thought the important part was in the feeling, which is technically a transient thing. It doesn't last outside the heart, anyway - you can't put it in a box and sell it when you're hard up for cash, but you can give it away, easily and with difficulty and with pain and with pleasure. It's better than a rock, maybe even better than a tree.

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thulcandran

May 2013

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