Myriad are the joys of the world encountered in such accounts of them as along the pages of a book, even when they do not necessarily entail from a globe of our own. Be it their borrowing upon real life existences and identities or conjuring instead a complete make- believe world from out of sheer imagination, such pieces of writing that weave stories in deft assertion of what it takes to fantasise are indeed a boon for all we know. Shaping up as such awarenesses we identify with as fiction, despite their premise not being rooted exactly in the real, this is a genre of the literary kind that encompasses in true spirit the magic that book and such devices of the literary are celebrated in their holding in profusion of it. There is something about curling up with a fiction piece and getting completely engrossed in its otherworldly premise, foregoing all notions of time and space that strive to dictate actual existences and dwelling instead in a realm shaped up wholly by the brilliance of what stems from the writer’s immense fancy. And that ‘something’ that the scribblings of the fictional are essentially, unfailingly, certainly imbued with is what makes this whole exercise in seeking stories out of writing an experience immensely gratifying and fulfilling. Because fiction pleases our person and appeases our senses, there is a charm to it so peculiarly familiar that can never be matched by even the immense credibility and striking authenticity that non fiction dwells in as its characteristically real attribute.
This very fanstatical essence of fiction, irrespective of its stemming from part or whole figments of the imagination, though renders it also in a considerably lighter view of it, confining it to being such explorations emerging from among the echelons of what is greatly understood to be radiant with the wisdom emanating from knowledge that is pursued more in enjoyment, in indulgence and at leisure. And while that doesn’t make fiction the genre frowned over in any way, not universally, nor personally and certainly not in unison for indeed the charm of what transfuses through the pages of the fictional is unmatched by any other reiteration of just about any art whatsoever, it still makes the dreamy scape across where fiction makes its enticing splash a realm not regarded with as much dignity as far as the practical relevance of it is concerned. Compared to the graver, realer and more assertive indeed dominion of the non fictional that substantiates claims with facts and figure and provokes thought to such extreme extents of which the human mind is cognisant, fiction pales as a line of thought defiant enough to command the conscientious profundity of the human awareness. But in missing out on the stark realities of what makes life the harsh entity that it is, fiction allows instead for such explorations of the mind to take over that veritably dims the grim glare through which the bruised and battered human identity continues in all perseverance. Entitling it instead to the pleasures of the possible over the ravages of the real, through its stemming of such alleys alluding to an altogether different dimensional existence, fiction is what lends the human element a succour of sorts to delve into and desire in all its perceived exaggeration, in the process though delivering such lessons of life itself in all learning that makes it no less important an entity to stumble upon and discover, with much delight as well.
The charms of fiction might rest indeed in its conjuring of such concept that appeal to the human senses in adhering to the doctrines of the desirable, or perhaps in even eking out own definite versions of what should count as the coveted but even in titillating the senses, the scriptings of fiction render itself more than relevant in such reiterations that strive to in fact enhance the experience of the real. Fiction might seem like an escape from life, but what it instead leads one into is such essential molding of our persons and perspectives that what renders us to encompass a version of reality more transparent than the hazy allure in which it is steeped. And that a reading between the lines of the fictional does by influencing us through that cast of the spell we refuse to be untranced by simply because it happens to strike as the fascinating unfolding of something as delightful as stories. Cooked up to perfection by delivering such images in vivid distinction that lead us to indeed believe ourselves as part of that alternate reality- and just to mention, more potent and ancient and classic that the rather exalted virtual rendition of today’s reality- are such exquisite exploits of fiction that finds subconscious ways into the deeper reaches of our soul and meanders along the maze of what makes up the intellect that shape us in diverse assertions of our human essence. Poignantly shifting the scope of the emotional and dynamising the working of the mind are such reads of the storied and the made up that might offer an interpretation of themselves in being devoid of the logic of what characterise the real but in fact are much assertive harbourers of reason and sense. Because to make the seemingly impossible appeal as being real indeed even when in some parallel running of time or across a dual expanse of space needs working out of the imagination in logical coherence, fiction makes its creators more exploring of the definite sequence in rationalising even the most far flung of their wildest, inconceivable indeed starry exploration of their mind. Delivering therefore of something and deriving also of that very essence of the experience entailing out of living life, fiction stems as more real an assertion of life in that it arises out of the bounds of the teachable. Inculcated instead in deft explorations in one’s owe conscious awareness to such extent that makes the mind more capable of conjuring up visions and imparts in turn also to the reader an awareness along similar line, the charismatic character of the fictional delivers what even the essential nature of the real at times falters upon.
This aspect of the human rendition across which fiction works endows also upon us more human a notion in which we come to dwell, by effectively evoking our innermost emotions whether it be in such virtues of empathy or in deeper understanding of the essence manifested in the connections and relations one pursues in life. In being not the destination but the journey charted through life, attributable to its rooting in the aspiration rather than in ambitions, fiction provides us a window into our own life, the reality of which is perceived in more vivid awareness from the other side of it. Fiction works wonders because it grapples with such personalities that encompass traits of numerous in one, concocting up therefore an identity of such unique assertion not anywhere encountered in the real world. In guiding one across a mix of eccentricity, by granting surprising accessibility into their minds, or more aptly even making us think and reason like one of them, fiction offers a view of the world that wouldn’t otherwise avail to us if we had been rooted exclusively in reality. Even in being an escape from the world, fiction renders us more in relation with reality ironically through its addictive premise based on which we make strides towards mindshifting into the personality we identify with, in behavior and temperament and action or sometimes even in physicality. And it is through transfixes like these that fiction tends to be closer to reality or rather morphs into the reality it had helped us evade, by presenting an alternative that is often rosier than the waters where we currently wade.
Beyond such essences in which the manifestation of fiction occurs as part impacting our personality and in part our perspective through such ploys of the psychological into which the plot of play permeates most fluently, fiction also is what equips us with such skills more practical in their awareness. From expanding vocabularies to bettering our own style and technique in articulation and deliverance, in favourably impacting memory and boosting concentration, by strengthening brain functioning and by improving our cognisance capacities as well, a voracious reading of the fictional endows upon us a brilliance that helps us chart our course through the variegated inclinations of life. Fiction also has been found to boost brain connectivity in that it helps us emerge as more aware of deducing the cause and effect relation between event almost spontaneously, as a habit derived from such continuous adhering to while skilfully navigating the lanes of the lore. Fiction is necessary because it leads us to hope and desire, and makes us forever anticipative of the fairy tale like culmination of our life across its many pursuits. Fiction leads us to dwell on the grounds of the fancied, imparting us a belief that works indeed in retaining possibilities galore even among the seemingly superfluous. But fiction helps also because it stands true to its stereotype of being an avenue to indulge in, in sheer enjoyment and bliss, in relaxation and in luxurious sailing through the utter pleasures of the extravagant and thereby presents itself as a detour from life embarking on which we come to value our mundane existence a bit more, perhaps in the hope of someday fluttering along magically across a world of our own imagination.