And after what seems like ages I have been tempted to write. Not anything tangible mind you, but as a continuation of an ever affectionate story—Alice has awoken having fallen a great distance late last night down a very long and psychedelic rabbit hole, full with flashbacks of old Squaresoft/Square Inc. games and lost English friends she hasn't spoken to in any great or meaningful way since childhood.
This may seem well and good for all you happy mortals, but knowing mortals as I so do, few will wander onto this page for fear of being lost in a very outdated prose I consider comfortable. Much like C. S. Lewis considered his life's work comfortable when he compared it to Tolkien's manic life's accomplishment(s). I would dare say that Tolkien was more of a man, who in a very similar fashion to myself, wasn't satisfied with society's generalizations and wanted his world perfect and if that meant dedicating his life to his novelties, well dammit sir, he did just that. He'd cut off his left arm if it meant he'd get another chapter. People thought he was quite mad, mad as a march hare; mad as a hatter. But we already know that. His only real friend I dare say in those early days had to be Lewis. Why, I having no complacent or logical discourse to justify that statement with beyond pure unadulterated passion.
If my friend, this pocket watch carrying Rabbit in trench coat who has managed to tempt me, or dare I say, flog me down this particularly dark rabbit hole into a world I scarcely remember, but feel with such a passion it is as though my heart was lost in fuzziness, happens to read this passage of randomly connected statements (which I'm constantly editing for the sake of it) I dare to call writing, then perhaps he will find some deeper meaning in it all—we can only hope.
I'd slap him for that flashback, but seeing I rather like the confused sense of reality, the sense at knowing that this Lost World of imagination, childhood and imaginative originality—once all my own—has been brought back all by a couple of journal entries of pedantic whining on his part.
Ironically, and in not too small an order, he managed to give me an ulcer (to which Google gave me a correction for my incapacity to spell words properly without great assistance. It is to no surprise of my own that I am an infant when it comes to typos and spelling mistakes, grammatical debaucheries of the fourth order. Remember first order debaucheries are not capable by primary users of a language unless they are Americans after consuming large quantities of alcoholic substances in the presence of her majesty. “Good Morning Mr. President.”). To which I also might add, the inescapable truth in life is that while we try and avoid the reality of imagination, our minds trying to delude us into thinking fiction, fantasy is simply a delusion, created as a pastime by our troubled minds in order to escape reality, it strangely may yet become known that reality is overrated and is not really reality at all, but another fantasy our minds concoct in order to deal with the sameness of our lives and fantasy is simply an expression of the human spirit, the human condition in an effort for us to better understand ourselves and our potential. So that that simple yet eloquent boy may yet still become a heroic man and save the world under blade or pen.
May all your swords stay sharp, your pens flowing to constantly bombard the authorities with annoying legal rhetoric whose only purpose is to maim and prevent their dark selves from bringing about world destruction.
To a friend who often finds himself lost in a pub somewhere in Northern England I give a message. Perhaps fate is not always a warm and kindred spirit, but sometimes she has a way of bringing all bad things to a close and showing us our destinies even if we don't always realize them at first. Fantasy is the pathway to (into) the human spirit and perhaps your novel is your method of escape. Remember to imagine, to find the deepest meaning in life. Find the power to find yourself and the stupidity to laugh at my ridiculously high brow prose. Perhaps this is all just a flawed perception or mental constipation on my part, my inability to grow up, but I do think in some small way God is telling Christopher not to Grow up, not just my imagination's dying wish to live.
So to close, Andrew, World, Life, God, whatever else exists and is capable of reading my random prose—Perhaps this message will reach you in good light and measure. Find meaning in something, in the daily pressures of our existence. Hopefully there is some small purpose in it all that will give us meaning. I dare say I know not what it is nor where it is leading me, but at least it has been fun—this merry life we do lead. Good luck and perhaps I shall meet you again in another forum, another life, another world.
God Bless and may the pudding and flying spaghetti monsters of lesser men bounce harmlessly off your innumerable intellects.