004

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, 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 cleaner. 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 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.