Sometimes I like to live in the shadow of people who I don't know, but for whom I have respect. The bits and pieces they share with the world resonate with me. I find myself sharing their opinions and wanting to live like them.
No one but me knows about the shift within that is happening. It's not overt. I just want to be more hopeful, more open to adventure, live with less stuff, to make a life change and have a really great attitude about it.
Maybe I can, maybe it's not too far beyond me to become the attributes that I admire in others.
But I still feel a little foolish trying to explain the 'why' of a change with "well, I read about where someone else did it... and it .. sounded ... cool?"
From Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale
People disappear when they die. Their voices, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living mempry of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continut to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humour, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.