Something of fiction

by Gabriella Sonabend

Sometimes, characters form inside the mind in a strange hinterland between reality and dreams; they take on characteristics which are exaggerated versions of their true nature. They are inflated, aggrandised, indulged painted with colours they have never worn and adorned with sounds they have never spoken. Sometimes in loud back alleys where light fights to fall through every crack and every keyhole; where sounds merge and become a pounding insistent drone, ideas are born which do not belong to the places in which they are born. Here in Varanasi, I begin to live in this world where preconceptions from my own world try to smother what I see before me, try to contort images so that they fit within my lexicon. Here my subconscious impulses, my rational mind and my sensory receptors are at a strange war. Little makes sense and I draw myself into a world of fiction in which I can hide … perhaps.

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