This is a continuation, after a long break.
This space has always been about me. This space has never been about me. There is a difference between personal writing and the exaltation of sheer individuality. I am not an individual, and neither are you.
We are nodes in connection with others. We are porous and contingent. We seep out of ourselves, but too often we face fear and anxiety over our seepiness. We weep out of ourselves and tear at our bodily limitations. I've scratched away my own surface, and invited the outside into me.
I've put my body in this space and asked of myself, what makes me up? What makes me move? How do these materials shape me, and how were these materials shaped?
I'm a force at work. I am a very contained fluidity. I hole up, extremely tentative to act upon the world. I have so much to give, and yet. I sit. I sit and sit and lay and sleep and eat, a little, and run, alone. I read and read, things that glow and hurt my wrists and things that do not glow because they are made from mere trees and I feel peaceful, contented.
I've just been basking in a simple contentment that is a world apart from the anger, violence, and chaos I've known up to this point. That anger and violence swirls around outside my door and inside my head, and the sadness of the people I love who suffer opens the void inside my heart but there is just nothing I can do, really. I can only do what I can. I can write. I will write. I must write.