Just a bit of typing, yeah?

It was almost a physical feeling, a blow to the brain, if such a thing could be imagined.

There is a blight upon our society.

In one moment, I went from a person, doing what I though was right, to a character.

It is more subtle than the havoc wrecked by drugs, less direct than that caused by violence.

The feeling was pleasant, of course it was. Desipte my dire circumstance, of course it was.

The advent of popular media in our society has done damage that we do not realise. The presentation of the dramatic ideal, from its humble, dead tree beginnings, has created an hithero unforeseen situation amoung our population.

Every single action, justifed in a fraction of a second. I was no longer without direction, I was filling a role. He had killed my family. Of course, it was my place, my role, to end his existance.

If every love story is not played out by picture perfect actors, with haird toussled, just so, it is not perfect. If an arch paragon of virtue does’t have his nemesis, he is no paragon.

I flexed. Not physically, mentally. I felt as if I had surfaced from deep underwater. My sight, my hearing, my taste, felt so clear, so sharp.

Narative causality, an interesting meta-fiction conception, has become fact. Not due to reality, but due to human nature. An artifical force has been created, fuelled by our preconceptions, which are, in turn, fuelled by the story telling urge.

After being so tired, for so long, I felt a second wind rise from within me, and I began to run again.

At first, this effect was harmless, a tiny inclination to support the underdog, a smal urge to believe the reformed crook. Yet, like all things, it spiralled.

The breath pounding in my ears felt dramatic, felt right. Every cinematic cut felt just out of reach.

Soon, an affair was not an affair unless it was passionate and frenzied, shrouded in shameful secrecy. A vendetta was not a vendetta until it was sealed with a cry of rage.

I felt detached, seperated somehow, from my surroundings. I could see the words on the page, the carefully cast actor, better than I could my reality.

Every deprave lunatic fighting for ‘justice’ became a vigilante. Every father berating his child became the arch-evil of children’s stories. Every crack addled whore became a pretty woman.

I was he. The protagonist, lord of all. My fate was not in my hands, and thus, I could do no wrong.

~ by grimbojones on March 8, 2008.