When I read, I sometimes note that I have taken on characteristics of the work. I see things from the perspective of the main character. I consider events in the frame of reference of mathematics, physics, social theory, history, or whatever subject about which I've been reading. For a time after I read, I amI enjoy conversation, don't misunderstand, but a spoken word wouldn't cut it. I am enriched by dialogue, but I am enlarged by prose. shaped by the material, powerfully turned by it.
I feel at times that something in me awaits the right text, the key phrase to open up something locked away, hidden from my conscious mind. Pardon the computer parlance, but it is as though I'm sitting at the password prompt to an su - command. Enter the password, and I will gain access to the root filesystem of... who knows? Myself? Insight into humankind? The world? Reality itself, muah ha ha?
I wonder if my text has been written. If it exists at all.