[Mon] histoire, c’est étranger comme je suis en train de la revivre rue par rue, heure par heure avec la consigne de la neutraliser, de la changer en un passé inoffensif que je puisse garder sur mon cœur sans le renier et sans en souffrir. Ça n’est pas facile : c’est à la fois douloureux et poétique.

These days I’m almost painfully aware of how we lie to ourselves. Attaching pomp meaning to our existence, valorizing a passion or interest, so to construct a distinct identity (often through what we’ve consumed), reveals itself in both small and large notes in ways that are, at best, curious. What else could it be when you find yourself withholding truths or thoughts out of the fear that it’ll result in the collapse of someone’s entire worldview, let alone existence. Most of the time, I’m acutely aware of not only how we lie to ourselves, but how imprisoning it is.

Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.

Only that which cannot be lost in a shipwreck is yours.

At the very least, complex personhood is about conferring the respect on others that comes from presuming that life and people’s lives are simultaneously straightforward and full of enormously subtle meaning.