I finished reading East of Eden by Steinbeck today. Or rather yesterday. It's funny. I still feel suspended in the space of its pages, and edited in the edifices of its story. As I read, I was rocked by its raw contents, and its painful reveal of true life. I lay dazed, as if I had actually jumped into the book and taken up residence among its characters. And when coming to, residuals were there.
The residuals have played into my actuality. Today, or rather yesterday, was like a novel. An unfathomable took place and I was rocked. But this time, it's not from the dictated vantage point of a novel where I can feel rocked by the pain as I read, only so far as how well the author describes the instrinsic of his character, but escape it by snapping the leaflet shut. This is my true life. No novel involved.
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