9 out of 10 monkeys believe they are not behind glass

One thing about commuting via the bus that I truly love is that I can just drift off into my own thoughts. Some people prefer to drive every day to work, a thing that I just don’t understand, so I prefer the comfy rear corner of the bus with just me and my thoughts. Granted, sometimes, I am a boring individual, so I bore myself with my thoughts and just fall asleep.

But those other times, my imagination just takes off. It’s like I am a five year old again. But the cool thing about it is the fact that rantings of my imagination have the color and depth of an adult.

Today I was sitting on the bus wondering if other people are the same way. If up and down the rows of people on the bus, if each one was in their own world, with their own superheroes, their own adventures, their own outcomes that satisfy their desires in this world.

Then my imagination kicked off. Without warning, backstory, or any sort of prepping, I imagined all those people projecting little microcosms of their worlds around them. The old guy two rows up suddenly is reading the paper in a superhero costume, and the lady next to him looking out the window is dressed like an astronaut.

Before I knew it, I was on a bus full of other people’s dreams. I looked down at that point at my own clothes, and realized nothing had changed on my end.

What a dullard I am. Even my own imagination can’t make me a character… I always end up as the narrator.

Ha.

Funny how people read the exact same passage and get totally different things out of it.

My wife reads my post yesterday on how time is fleeting and thinks it is a depressing and rather sad outlook on life.

My friend reads the same post and reads that cherishing the life your given in whatever way you can is absolutely correct and rings of a bit of truth.

So where does the fault for misinterpretation lie? Probably on the author’s shoulders I would think. So I punched that damn goodfornothing author right in the eye.

If anyone asks, I ran into a door knob. Twice.

I just finished Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman. And again, he knocks one out of the park. I love reading Neil’s works… his clarity and depth of knowledge of the world of stories, legends and myths make the fantastic quite possible.

American Gods was a great book, but I think this one just took it up a notch in terms of people looking for that special thing in themselves. That defining shining things in their hearts that light up the world around them… whether they are a god or not.

Context be damned. It is a great book no matter how you read it.

Highly suggested, if you like reading about beliefs becoming real (a consistent theme in Gaiman’s works).