Reality is bleeding.  

It is leaking into my prose.  

I've known for years that the influence was there.  In part it's
obvious, of course.  If what I write isn't plausible in some way,
shape or form no one would be able to relate to it.

I do not like to write about what I have no experienced or cannot
imagine well enough to put to paper.  And my imagination is vivid.

However, truths -- objective truths (as they appear, using my best
abilility to judge, which in the end makes them objective but if I let
this recursiveness carry me I will lose all focus, all grasp) -- have
begun to manifest themselves in my writing, in the writing around me.

(I have perhaps lost the ability to judge between truth and fiction.
I do not know.)

Small events, conversations, feelings, things that have happened to
me, been observed by me, are worming their way into my writing and I
feel helpless to stop them.

It feels like some inevitable motion, like that of a landslide or a
glacier, changing my writing.  Changing my life.

Changing, because there has to be some trade-off.  Some equilization
of pressures between the real, the unreal, the imaginary.  A blending
of borders.  

The untruths, the made-up lives and worlds are subtly moving into me.
Into the places that I thought were real, into the thoughts I believed
to be my own.  Reaching out to touch my cheek, laugh at me and fling
themselves into this world.  They are becoming real.  

And I am losing substance.

--
Kelly J. Cooper, 2/5/95
All rights reserved
kjc@apocalypse.org