Political Surrealism and How Things Should Be

I have decided that I can no longer stand staring at would-be Mark's face every time I view this blog. I swear it's killing me. I need something different, something new and entirely unlike Mark Adams. Thus, a Rene Magritte painting will do.

Anyhow, I have realized of late that I write political surrealism (as opposed to magical realism or some silly such thing.) The political aspect should be fairly obvious; I write about politics, Presidential politics, to be exact. As far as surrealism is concerned, however, that is a little more difficult. I don't mean the historical definition per se, for I am only an erstwhile anarchist and most certainly nothing of a communist. By the term, I simply mean that in my novels, things are not as they are in real life, especially politics. Nothing is as it truly is but how it should be. I walk around each day with such grandiose views of what the world is supposed to be like, and all people ever say to me is, "That's not how thing work" or "Life's not fair". I've always wanted to answer them with this: "But if that's how it should be, why isn't it? Why can't we make it that way? Why can't we make things as they should be?" Because that is the world in which I want to live--the world of my ideals. It is the world in which I choose to live, for it is the only world worth living in.

Literature is a wondrous tool that can serve so many purposes. It can be a lens through which to see the world, or part of it. It can be a warning of horrors to come. It can be an escape into that borderland between sanity and insanity. Yet I have no desire to write about things as they are or as they will never be. Those are two extremes that hold very little meaning for me. The only method for which I care is the third extreme and that is writing about things as they should be, regardless of whether or not they can ever be that way. I suppose this sort of writing gives me the hope that President Barack Obama can't. Because contrary to popular belief, I am not really a cynic at all. I am an idealist, and I do choose belief over doubt rather too often. I simply give myself that hope, and then throw myself back into depression when I realize that my books are only fiction.

He tortured himself by thinking when he knew he did not want to think. He thought simply because he thought thinking was the right thing to do. He tuned out his subconscious, who told him to shut up the weary thoughts and shove the boxes in some dark, dank corner of the attic that was his mind. Yet because he thought it was right, he rummaged through the boxes, making nothing but a mess. But he did not look terribly hard because, in spire of what his conscious mind said was right, his subconscious had some impact. Ralph wasn't really looking for the answers--wasn't really looking to see his sorry self reflected upon the mirror of his soul. He, like all mankind, was simply looking for a way to get through the pain of the moment and on to the next. He was living, just living as long as he had to.