Rain, rain, rain, damned rain! Some very ill characteristic of Vancouver. That's the first thing I can thing of relating to the features of this western coast. But you see, it isn't some sort of rash storm that comes and goes, it is a lingering drizzle that hangs like a brooding mood over you, and depresses your senses. When and if the occasionally the sun comes out, it is like liberation from a communist regime, out of some kind of concentration camp. On these days, there is nothing to do except stay indoors and muse and dream and curse and scream. I think that is why us Vancouverites are so goddamn pedantic, us, the people of the rain. Reading to the slow tap tap of the rain upon the roof tops, and window panes is like a rhythm that encourages you to read at a fast and imaginative pace. About reading though, especially a good novel, an epic story, when you begin is like your own journey. That's why I'm so sad all the time when I finish a book that I was so enchanted by. I laugh at myself most of the time for replaying the day I bought the book and opening its fresh covers as a child does a bag of bonbons. I would close my eyes and revive my whole couple of days with that book as if it was a short lived love affair. And it is you know, you grow attached to the company of those words that had taken you away from your gray world, or at least this rainy one. In a sense, I think that to really enjoy a book, you must live it. I always did that, from vampires to little sprites, to elegant women, to heroines, I was them all. May be that is why I'm so freaking mutable in behavior, haha, living too many lives that are not my own, not wanting to live my own mundane life.
But this one, oh the recent book I just ended my romance with (and how sweet and short it was), I had lived this one before I was acquainted with the softness of its cover. Well, never done THAT before. I was sorry to see this one go, my life ending in a way that I liked as any ending for a novel, but not my life. I think that brings me to another theory as I sit here, I think that books, like relationships, you if dive too deeply into it, take it as realistic as Yeltsen is a drunk, then you are putting yourself on the path to pain. Can you make the relation? Yeah, try it. This advice, however, shan't be tested by me; I dive deep into the book whether I like it or not. The main character would literally embody me as I read on, I would start to think like them, talk like them, act like them. And surly, I know my doom lies with the ease of being influenced by such works. Music too. I don't live the songs, but I create my own story that goes with the hanging notes. See the landscape, see the tragic scenes (I seldom like happy melodies). Boy, this surmounts to one insecure child -me. How far would I go to not live my real life and feel what is my own. I don't think I want to. The regular psychoanalysts would presume that I had some traumatic event with real emotions earlier in life and has since blocked it out of my memory except for the absolute ban on reality. Here, I think he would go as far as hypnotizing me and have me confess my deepest fears while etherizing my conscious mind. I think I would like to get that done. I always knew I lived in a written story, I didn't write about my life, my life illustrated a pre-written story. That is the whole drama of it.