I had decided upon a metaphorical reading of the landscape, refusing what was literal, what was undeniably there. I gave people histories apart from what they knew about themselves, looking for a narrative which had never arisen before. It was a selfish crafting of the story, the way I always involved myself at the center, thinking that I had some stake in what people could only determine for themselves.
I had to think that these sketches were the seedlings of something greater, something which looked beyond the reality they often limited themselves to. I knew there to be some fatality in it, in driving at a fiction I wanted all too much to be real. I was working with an unsettling belief that meaning only existed in what we took as fact.
I remembered this when I began to see his eyes as kaleidoscopic, not entirely incongruous with what he was recounting. Passion smiled from them, offering a physical magnetism which drowned out everything else, rendering validity inferior to what I believed. I couldn’t help but hope that what I was crafting held some distant element of the truth, of possibility at least.
But maybe it was syllepsis being the only connection between us, always my reliance upon the tricks of literature to involve myself somehow.