Monday, February 1, 2010


In the tiny alley-way that juts into the back of my building, the snow hovers on exhalations of heat and starts to float back upwards. Moving particles influenced by large invisible waves always remind me of time.
I can't let the usual helplessness seep in, though. It is no comfort to imagine myself destined to have woken up today and to have been disgusted that I am still myself.

There is no comfort in destiny. I recognize that it is so built into my perception of the world, to presume oneself an element of the "fairy-tale;" to presume the narrative has structure and you have a role. The princess has no agency. The wizard is clumsy and drunk. The knight is self-absorbed. Secretly, you have always been the monster, immanently deformed, sad and dangerous.

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