a life in fiction

'Such were the authors of my being: of all the gifts it had pleased Heaven to bestow on them, a feeling heart was the only one that descended to me; this had been the source of their felicity, it was the foundation of all my misfortunes'
Jean-Jacques Rousseau

I woke up this day to find that it is one too often that i find my sense of self in words. My being, my head and my heart only to be acknowledged by these faceless, voiceless writers from the distant past, for whom are as severed from me as I am from the world. What is it that speaks to me in these people? We are thousands of years apart, worlds and worlds away. Yet these words look up at me with the familiar face of someone who could be me, someone who knew me through all time. These moments of familiarity have happened one too many times, from my childhood until now. Words, so beautifully expressed, seemed to convey what i could never, and created my inherent dependancy on them as if by the very act of reading i was released. As a child, they served to be my invisible friends acknowledging the same inclinations i had for dreams and fantasies and now in my current state they again aid me as i seek solace and understanding from myself and the world. Words have done for me what music could not, for in music there is only mutual companionship in a irrational language that is the closest companion to my heart. But words, they speak directly to me and engage my mind to move my heart. This kind of confrontation sits well with me for I am want to be led, and it is this kind of authority that so dangerously leads individuals to lose their minds and act foolishly. It is this authority that bring about the presence of religious fanatics, zealous politicians and other ideological indulgences. That is the basest form of relationship one could have with the most beautiful words in the world, leaving me to deduce that perhaps the best way to mediate this is not to let your mind away with words but let your heart have its say. As Pascal said, "the heart has reasons which reason does not know" and i see fit that is one's best protection against the darkness of the mind. I dont think the heart knows what is good or bad, perhaps it only knows more or less. In most instances when we do something wrong, we feel it in our hearts but it is our mind that says it is wrong. And it is our heart that moves us to say more or less of that because the person whomotivates himself or herself by saying "i'm doing this or that because it makes sense to do so" is ultimately a really sad person because he or she has to live by the logic of the mind, logic being a flawed concept in itself. Progress of the sciences and arts have not brought us further in this world indeed dear Rousseau, because nobody has yet given theory to the language of the heart and damn you for trying.