portrait of a time.

i'm really struggling to reconcile my paramount hatred towards any the "first-world"-dwelling "third-worlder" author and diaspora autorship in general with the inevitable fact that those narratives will inevitably move me. the only reason why i do not hate myself to the point of physical self-annihilation is very plainly because i will never publish anything that i could write and most times i actively repress myself from creating anything relating to that anyways, which i feel maybe unjustly that everyone should do.

it's interesting to see superabundance as a reaction to being halved, in a sense. outsourcing inputs to the point of being nothing, which is better than being an original you cannot return to whole and a fresh start you will never be satisfactorily empty in. Probably why The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje stuck with me, in a sense, even if it's a book with obvious issues. But I truly can't read Erodotus, I could in high school and I tried to last year but I can't, it makes me too sad.

still have to watch the hotd finale but the life and times of the library of alexandria are unfortunately proving way more engaging. sigh.

I can't be swallowed by nostalgia but it's very hard and there are only so many stupid things I can distract myself with because the nostalgia is totalizing the suggestion of the movement of an eye or a hand or a run in a song are enough to walk back into the sea :/

The year 1960 is like a dead wife