I write to see myself write, to hear myself express ideas that do not materialize in real life around me. That I want to write less when I end up having satisfying conversations confirms to me that there is an element of justification, a confessional theme in my reason to write. Maybe that is why... Continue Reading →
A Reflection on Reading
One practical outcome of my reading is rationalizing unexplainabiblity to my own fearful self. Something about life's mysteries weirds me out. Especially those that have the hint of a solution lurking about. It makes me feel inadequate when I am unable to solve seemingly obvious tangles - it gives me a sense of not being... Continue Reading →
Oct 1st 2017, Brooklyn
Help me out here, will you? Why write? I mean, why write? What I write I want to read. What I want to read I want to experience in some form and what I don't experience leaves me screaming for it self-pityingly. Admonitions of "but you can't have it all" or "fucking nonsense, grow up" make me... Continue Reading →
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