by way of explanation
how about writing as catharsis? i think much more of reading as catharsis these days as i find myself unable to express absolutely anything in words strung together by myself as opposed to recognizing what i mean to say in what is put down by someone else.
i don't want to take any more religion classes. no more slash. just literature. i just want to read and listen to people talk about what we've read. as for dialogue, i have noticed an extreme regression in my own ability to express myself. i used to pride myself on candor and the natural aptitude for conversation, not to mention analysis, that i saw as necessary for progress in relationships and in society, but now it is as much a matter of being unable to say things as it is a matter of having so many fewer opinions of my own anymore.
it is rarely far from my mind that life is about connecting, but i avoid it consistently. i suppose i mean to say i find the most contentedness when my thoughts are validated through their matching those of someone else, or at least working through them in that context. i've forgotten how to initiate conversation, but i'm glad when it finds me anyway.
nothing to be said of concision, i will now return to the solitude i haven't actually left, and continue to be an aimless me, not unhappy, but certainly desperate in a way. i want a small life, i've decided.
{if you haven't read chekhov's ward 6, please do.}
[why does a life of coffee, cigarettes, rain and high heels sound so glorious?]
i don't want to take any more religion classes. no more slash. just literature. i just want to read and listen to people talk about what we've read. as for dialogue, i have noticed an extreme regression in my own ability to express myself. i used to pride myself on candor and the natural aptitude for conversation, not to mention analysis, that i saw as necessary for progress in relationships and in society, but now it is as much a matter of being unable to say things as it is a matter of having so many fewer opinions of my own anymore.
it is rarely far from my mind that life is about connecting, but i avoid it consistently. i suppose i mean to say i find the most contentedness when my thoughts are validated through their matching those of someone else, or at least working through them in that context. i've forgotten how to initiate conversation, but i'm glad when it finds me anyway.
nothing to be said of concision, i will now return to the solitude i haven't actually left, and continue to be an aimless me, not unhappy, but certainly desperate in a way. i want a small life, i've decided.
{if you haven't read chekhov's ward 6, please do.}
[why does a life of coffee, cigarettes, rain and high heels sound so glorious?]