Member-only story
I can’t say if it’s immaturity or truth to hold onto the past and to worship it and to crown it as good I’m biased towards the category of beauty-which-is-lost
fear of misunderstanding the purpose of literature holds me back from writing it I feel like I’m permanently at the threshold of the kind of deep creativity I require from myself almost like when you’re fourteen and have never been kissed and feel that it’s your due to be kissed to be loved but you feel like it will never happen and you begin to give up and just when you do someone surprises you
nature resembles fate force or faith it resembles that surprise there are patterns worked very deep into your organism that produce the future like a the folds in a paper swan
you have to keep pressing yourself like a grape squeeze every ounce of creativity out of your drought-destroyed soul
the project of fictionalizing allows me to fundamentally alter myself at the quantum level to become as it were truthful eternal real in ways that are not possible biological in real time
if you don’t believe in those deeper forces they the Gods won’t manifest through you and scribble themselves across the page
