I’m in Italy and I feel trapped in a romantic construct of self-imposed seclusion but I’m not even a writer, not really. Valter needed someone to house-sit, and who could turn down an idyllic month in a mountain near the alps? Not me. It meant I’d spend Christmas alone, but don’t feel bad. I could have had a happy Christmas, surrounded by family and vestigial friends from back home.
There’s nothing more empowering than deciding to be depressed, it really flips the script.
“What if I want to be sad?” I didn’t ask.
I’m a semester into my honors thesis on formally modelling what underwater basket weaving means exactly. It’s ironically more useful than underwater basket weaving. One issue: I’m not sure what anything means, not really.
It’s summer and I can benefit from hindsight. For most jobs, starting as soon as possible is ideal. The second best time to plant a tree is now most of the time, but I’m not sure it holds for writing. When you’re in it, every detail seems important. What she said, what he didn’t say, and what they were wearing fade with time, leaving only the shape of experience.
envy is ignorance; imitation is suicide.