Sensical A wise man once said that what separates fiction from its ante is the fact that fiction has to make sense, while the real world just doesn't sometimes. I write a lot. I write in a journal I keep by my bedside, every single day making marks, the only real proof that I was here. I read a lot, too: stories, ones that really happened alongside the woven ones. I look back into my journal regularly, rereading old events, trying to connect them to what's happening today. Sometimes I feel like a master craftsman, peering into the past to draw up a sensical, well-developed future for myself. It's like premonition. Why does it seem, then, that my own #life never seems to make sense?
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