i felt like a traitor when i made up my mind to close the door on the literary industry in the way i used to see it and used to participate in it. even though looking back, it looks like a matter of course that i took myself out (same starting point doesn’t mean you’re heading the same direction), i still feel the shake sometimes, especially because i still support it with all my heart and i’m rooting for every single person black, and sometimes wish i could still be that girl. it would have been more legible. quantifiable.
making restful was the final catalyst. reflections, transmitting experience, contact, not ‘writing’, not aesthetic experience of the word/form’s craft, but aesthetic experience of the gist. i made what i wanted to see in the world but after seeing it in flesh, i realised i could be happy, not only almost happy. and it felt a little embarrassing to see, maybe because it became apparent to me that all these years, i’d been calling what was asymptotically almost it, it.
i wanted to be a form nerd, i really did, but in order to poop, i won’t be able to hold that desire/position in my hand at all.
anyway. not trying to get by, trying to get free.
