I was reading and editing over the last posts.
I realized something about reading.
When you’re sad you internalize the story as sad.
The words become this vessel…holding…something.
They become conduits of your emotion.
You’re reading in your head.
When I wrote it I was happy.
The words bound up in bliss.
My head notes made them happy.
Excitement formed the lines of letters.
I smiled as my mind wove the story.
Today oh today.
The story was sad.
The moments were rejection and other unhappy moments if not expanded.
When my mind got to decide on the emotions of the tale they weren’t the reality of it.
They were the now.
How much of reading a story is separate from what the author intended?
Simply because our minds weave the emotions.