Written 2 years ago:
Nothing will ever be the same. Finding the other- in myself- has changed everything. Its not easy to write about- to wrench my heart out on paper- but the release must come through writing. What is literature now but a knowing retreat into self-delusion? Literature has no answers. I can't speak of the mysteries of this frightening, beautiful universe. Infact I can barely speak at all, without constantly telling myself that my thoughts are mine again. The future seems grey.. I'm clinging to a past that'll never come back. I feel like the old man on the moon. And debussy's Claire de Lune is playing in my head. In my head.
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