Fiction is Reality and Truth… with Some Twist

She said on my Facebook wall that the ‘quote’ I just shared was amazing. But the problem is, that is NOT a quote belonging to someone else. The words were MINE. I gave that ‘quote’ a deep thought before typing on my phone and sent it for the sake of sheer fun. No deception was intended at the time I wrote it. What made them look like a quote of a well-known influential figure is a pair of quotation marks, a dash, and a name of a stranger. For everyone’s information, the stranger whose name I mentioned there is non existent in the reality. I simply made it up. Here is the fake ‘quote’ which my friend found inspiring:
“Some always hate where they belong. They then leave for some presumably ‘better’, more promising foreign places only to find their hearts are still attached to the root. Yet, some others know there is no turning back. Because the root has never been the same.”- Shawn L. Kagda

I don’t have a heart, or boldness perhaps, to say to her that the quote was fake at all. There is no man named Shawn L. Kagda. I devised the name as I was flipping through a book I am still reading on Julian Assange and there I found someone’s last name: ‘Kagda’. Quite rare a name, so I thought. As for the first name, I initially wanted to pick ‘Sean’ but ‘Shawn’ is a bit longer to write. And there the name went from.

That got me into thinking that some people do seem to not mind or even bother checking whether something is true or made up. They just would love to enjoy what is served right in front of them, what is presented here and now. Once they feel like they can relate to it, they adore it with no but’s or if’s. Even they later know it all is not 100 percent purely factual.

Which brings me to a somewhat careless conclusion that fiction is a blend of truth and reality, but with a streak of witty twists to dampen uncool and harsh facts of life. It is like a skimpy-clad burlesque dancer, who happens to be dancing on stage wildly like there is no one really cares and booes him or her but never lets the mask on the face lifed for a single second. Because the mask is the last shred of dignity which separates him or her from a gogo unclothed dancer. So a fiction writer cannot bare it all like a journalist. There must be something hidden, unrevealed (instead of being unraveled) in stories that a fiction writer writes. One can leave some trace of reality in fiction but obviously not much.

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