You are who you are, but only right now. In a little while you transformed into somebody else. As time passes and events happen in your life (or not), you are never really the same person. From the moment you are born until the last breath you take, you are partaking in a continuing series of transformations. Small instances and big metamorphoses, ones that are explicit and ones that go unnoticed. All of the time. It explains why over time the same stimulus can trigger an entirely different response. Celebrate your transformations, they make for a journey of a lifetime.
One moment he is utterly depressed about a grievance in his luxury accommodated life. Like when we are out of chocolate spread. Or a hole wrecks his grijze t-shirt. Maybe his favorite sitcom runs low on episodes. Anything. The next moment he is all smiles again, and you would never suspect the tears that momentarily preceded. I wonder how he does it: shedding off the sorrows of a six year old and to instantly produce an upbeat demeanor. Fortunately enough, Kasper is willing to share his secret: “You see, I am really a quick forgetter”.
Fiction pertains to everything we can imagine, for if we couldn’t imagine it, it wouldn’t be fiction. Non fiction, on the other hand, is everything we don’t have to imagine, since it would be fiction otherwise. Fiction thus is bound by the limits of our imagination, whereas this constraint does not apply to non fiction. Fiction is like a parallel universe, whose outer limits are defined by your fantasy. Non fiction, on the other hand, requires no imagination, and consequently has no boundaries. I have a hard time processing this paradox of fiction: there are limits to what does not exist.
Recently, a casual dinner conversation went dark and out came my physical pain Top Three. Third place. The tantalizing nerve pinches of my early teen upperjaw braces (1984); I could not bite a green bean in half. Then came 2006, and I endured the tearing agony of an ingrowing toe nail. Had to wear loafers under my business suits for weeks. Nothing however, compared to the waves of excruciating pain of a passing kidney stone (occurred to me twice, in 2002 and 2011). Kidney stones are, apparently, the closest thing to delivering a baby. Mine felt like twins.
The body has no memory for pain. We are incapable of vividly retrieving the sensation of pain once its occurance is over. That said, I am very well able to recall the disturbing, reality narrowing tunnel of agony you endure when pain is inflicted upon you (physical pain that is, not its mental equivalent). So far, I have been lucky where physical pain is concerned. Only three times in my life thus far, I experienced physical pain beyond what I thought was possible, or endurable for that matter. Bear in mind, I am of the weaker kind.