The world shines so clear and blue. So clear. You can tell by the way it shines if it's true or false, good or evil.
That's the world in the fiction books.
Then I emerge from the fiction books to this other foggy place which I am forced to inhabit when not in fiction. Nothing is clear here.
In fiction world where I was today, Rosie loves and is loved by family and friends -- Narl, Peony, Sigil, Katriona, and Aunt.
In foggy place where I live now, don't know if I love anyone or if anyone loves me.
Rosie loves her simple country life.
I think I would hate it. No abstract thinkers there, everything so small, no one thinks beyond immediate practicality. That's why I hated my hometown.
Now in this foggy place the smart people, they have degrees to prove it, they don't talk to me, I'm too dumb.
Now this foggy place, the seed of a tree germinates, tries to grow, but the shadow of the canopy strangles it with darkness, it cannot expand to its size. Thus they strangle me. They strangle me with fatigue, with pushy people, stupid people, selfish people, boring tasks. I live mired in a bog. I can't see anything.