so many difficulties, so hard a life simply by virtue of being a life. and I don't pretend to do it justice. trying to inhabit a corner of the internet quietly, quietly.
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it is frustrating to me to be in a library again, except this one is wide and bright and has elaborate ceilings, it isn't glassy and cold and dusty grey outside, isn't in a past life, doesn't give me a feeling of total possibility. i hated the library that did, but i miss it today. it is frustrating to me to be feeling full of nostalgia and still have to go to class. it is frustrating to want to write, to feel a belly-fizz again, but still be unable. what would it do to the world if i wrote down a feeling, trying to explain its context, shared it?
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H and Z and i talked today at our favourite korean place about writing for the self vs writing for the world. they feel like they hardly ever write just for themselves, while i feel like i often, often write to myself, for myself, and what remains for the world is afterthoughts, outtakes, corners in which somebody else might fit a toe or a heart. i often have trouble figuring out what is Worthy to write about for the world. not this, these notes-before-the-notes, this art-before-the-art.
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i read Jia Tolentino's essay about the internet and trembled. i went away from all social media: again. each time i'm depressed. i don't know what the result will be, this time around. i like to throw some things out to the world, paper wound inside a bottle, an ocean of possibility. as though somebody somewhere is listening. all artwork for ears, some ears somewhere.