someday, when this ordeal quits you,

you will again be loved for what you will have been,

instead of who you could be becoming.

A story doesn’t have to give itself away. Ever. A story preserves and concentrates its strength and affect, and is capable of releasing its power even after a long time. I’m paraphrasing Walter Benjamin here.

Perhaps this is what I learned last year: the significance of perhapsness, of what can not not be.

in my own, delirious terms i had thought it was just the subjunctive case, cultural shock, but now I know it is actually a distinct, unactualized thought-pattern; addiction, religion.

My friend(s) believe(s) that it’s not a natural talent that will save me, but my drive to succeed in my dreams despite lack of talent.

But the truth is what I’ve really done is become really good at deferring creative impulse, to appear as one, being-stable, in effect cloaking myself from myself, in order to remain unrecognized by everyone else–why am I so afraid of being recognized? Is it in anticipation of Hegel’s Divine Day? The terror ensuing at the possibility that this place of Fear and Trembling–this infinite compossibility of a shared and perfect cogency is both aware of and judging me?

Who could punish me?


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