I get up and today is an exciting day. It is for me anyway. For at last I should complete something.
As a bonus it is scorching out there, even this early and the walk to work is real nice, as in the nicest nice. The sky is blue, the air is warm, and I feel happiness in the air.
I sit on the train, not in my normal seat, but on the opposite side. This seems to be the game of play today.
I open the book to finish it, its been hard going, and sometimes I thought I would not make it. Its not been riveting, it been reading. The first part is good real, good, real obsessiveness, of what is reality, it is not, but is in someone's head. How they need something so badly that they don’t need it that they will deny themselves the truth that they do even though in reality they don’t. It quick, catchy, compulsive. You’re there, not with them but actually in there head, their thoughts, and there mind pattern.
So somewhere, I miss the point, the plot? The story. I’m not sure there is a story, I mean there could be, I just didn’t see it, or read it. By the end there was no story, not to me. But that maybe just the way the story changed hands. If I could read it a gain, I wouldn’t, well maybe I would, but just the first bit, the bit that reminds me, of the mind, what is, isn’t, you feel is, but isn’t, what you want, but isn’t.
And as the book isn’t mine I resist writing my note in it, what it is I think of the book, and I stop, not the writing, how could I, that would be against the whole point of the book.
I ponder where were the post cards from the edge, and what has happened to them all. Surely some of them are still out there somewhere, somewhere for someone to find. Wasn’t that the point of them afterall? So like it says on the surface of the back cover, if you liked and understood “One Flew Over the Cuckoos nest” this may take you one step toward that nest and may even take you a few steps beyond. Wherever it takes you, you will be glad to return.
After all its Not For Sale in Canada.