Suspension of Disbelief

There are no explanations but that it ends, here.

Before the narration begins, you must believe it yourself, else people will doubt you the moment you open your mouth. Have you ever seen a picture painted in watercolor and realized how faint the rendering, how fragile the lines? That too, is your story: close enough to be recognized, but still a couple of paces removed from the truth, so you baffle both philosophers (and still we insist that it is not impossible for both of them to have watched the plays anyway, just as we consider the possibility that Homer may never have existed).

The last few pages, written with fervor (because you made yourself believe you are free of distractions), are what you think can be genuine proof that sometimes the boundary is lifted; you may even like the chaos that is of your own making: grammatical necklaces, tense impressions, punctuation marks in place. A movement from A to B until you descend into an assumed finish must be prepared for, or otherwise be explained by some implied natural logic.

Well here it is, you have conquered the page. Now all you need to do is convince others as you have convinced yourself, but just as you spit them out, the words die in your mouth. Don’t lie to yourself; you’re a little satisfied.

—

an attempt; Learning to Unravel or, On Literary Devices.