Is it true that perhaps, rather than art imitating life, life now imitates art?
We read about something, then read about something else similar and then we start believing the same things are going to happen in our lives...
do you ever feel that way? that literature, rather than liberate us and our thinking, instead constrains? It gives us new fears, new worries. It disturbs us , not allowing one to sleep sometimes.
Is that the point of Lit? To make one think so much that they lose reason?
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