I will always enjoy creating fictional stories. Because they have always been, will always be, perfect reflections of My evolving and dynamic Self-universe, at a specific moment in time.
But when it comes to savoring the fictional stories others create, My passion has ebbed. I have moved beyond the need to commune with the minds of others, most especially when such communion simply revolves around their reality perceptions, which is what the fictional story is.
The developing mind needs external stimulation, finds it genuinely useful. The developed mind of a top-level Superior, not really. Such a mind creates for itself all it needs, such a mind perceives the external universe with such depth and clarity, that every fictional story not Self-generated rings hollow and one-dimensional.
This does not diminish the legitimacy of the past. Always I will hold a hallowed spot within My mind for the fictional text stories which shaped and guided My Self-universe development.
At age eight, the infinite potential of My mind universe was ignited by the fictional story “The Lesson Of The Moth”, by Don Marquis::
Then at age ten, “Frankenstein”, by Mary Shelley:
Then, at age 11, Moby-Dick by Herman Melville:
Then at age 13, The Pit and the Pendulum by Edgar Allan Poe:
Thank you, fellow victims of mind-bleed, for feeding Me when I was mind-hungry, and for inspiring Me to seize the glory of feeding Myself.
“All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby Dick. He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it.”—-Herman Melville, Moby-Dick.
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