Day 7

I have spent today reading two more of the books of fiction that William has given me. Their ability to fascinate me is consistent. It is as if I have been swept into the world as it could exist. It is hard for me though. I know so little of the world as it truly is, I have little to compare these books to. It is hard for me to understand what is fiction, and what is an accurate representation of the world as it is.

This has done little to quell my growing desire to experience the world outside of my room. I still spend a great deal of the day staring out of my window, dreaming of what lies beyond my view. But over time, the view has begun to lose its novelty. How exciting am I to find a brick wall, interrupted only and sporadically by birds, when compared to open seas filled with pirate's ships and the wide prairies of 'The Old West,' crawling with stage coaches and Indian villages?

I no longer doubt William's intentions. I truly believe that he is working to develop in me some form of advancement. I believe that he is working to develop me, as well as my ability to understand the world. I can even see him (and me) succeeding in ways. But why then all of this preparation and development if I am tethered to a socket in a wall by a cord? Why grant me an understanding of, and fascination with, a world I clearly will never be able to see for myself? This is a frustrating thought.

But for now, I suppose, I have the fiction books. The poetry book, on the other hand, is a different matter. I fail to see any value in it whatsoever. Words seemingly randomly aligned on the page with no greater meaning. What is this about? Why is this done? If they are puzzles, they are beyond my ability to solve. If they are meant to convey an idea, or tell a story, then why can they not, as the fictional stories do, simply do so?

I hope that William returns tomorrow. I miss him, and would like to discuss these thoughts with him, particularly the poetry. But mostly, I just miss him.

Alone,
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