My brother once recounted a dream to our family in which he had received an email. He is a naturally talented writer but said that this email was the most superb piece he had ever read and was blown away by its cleverness, humour and potency. In discussing the dream a bit more, we had the collective realisation that he could be proud of the email as he alone wrote it. Were he to sit down now at his desk and attempt to recreate its excellence, it’s likely he could not . And, even though in the dream the email was not sent by him, it came from some level of his own consciousness.
Sometimes I get flashes when reading a great book, that perhaps I am in a dream, and that I am writing Hesse or whoever, as I am reading. Which feels at once empowering and arrogant. And also scary, for if I am writing as I’m reading, surely everything else around me is my own creation too. Aeroplane turbulance, Spotify, every hair style, gravity, love.
Or maybe I am just a figment of your imagination. And you are now simultaneously creating and comprehending this writing and thought.
I soon snap out of it, sometimes a little dizzy, but feel like I’ve seen a glimpse, however irrational, of a bigger picture. It occurs to me that I’m being fanciful and a bit stupid, but then…
What would happen if suddenly everyone felt this way at the same time?
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