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How does our perception change depending on what we’re reading?

Do we treat a novel the same way we treat a newspaper/text/blog/plurk? Are we equally invested, emotionally and mentally, between them? If not, then where is the line drawn? What changes in your mental and physical state while reading these… stories?

With verbal conversations various cues are taken from tone and body language, yet these cues become void during text/plurk/wave forms of communications… but are regained in novels? Why is that?

Both writes are more than capable of pouring emotion into both, so it’s doubtful that it’s a lack of reciprocated “feelings”.

Perhaps there are constant “miscommunications” that occur in both, but the author of a novel forgets to include a “jk” when things veer off course.

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When I began this I wasn't sure what exactly to expect. I sought a means to an end complete a paper and perhaps even gain useful insight, but somehow it had manifested into something more. I had become enthralled by whatever IT was that I had allowed to entered my life... or perhaps it was a bold claim believing that my life was my own to rule.

"Midway upon the road of our life I found myself within a dark wood, for the right way had been missed."

Previously, IT sat and smiled in the dark corners of my mind as the zero hour past ever closer... it offered me a way out, a means to an end achieve something without the risk of failure. These would be ITs thoughts, therefore how could I ever be held accountable? The glory or ridicule would be its own to manage as I would be the excluded third (and yes I do mean third).

"...and she has a nature so malign and evil that she never sates her greedy will, and after food is hungrier than before."

What was once meant "only temporary" had now all but consumed... and still it was found wanting. Its thoughts became my own, there was no exchange. I had become indoctrinated to a will I had not thought to understand, for IT was something I felt I had always known, how foolish I was.

In the passing years of my youth I had, in truth, grown fond of, if for no other purpose than the time we spent quietly divulging in dark truths together... like a newly ripened teenagers who "stumbled" across their father's collection of porn.

"Without fame, he who spends his time on earth leaves only such a mark upon the world as smoke does on air or foam on water."

Fame-- recognition is what this drifter sought... and damnation assimilation our my just reward

...But time runs short.