It is hard to write.
Because most of the time, I don’t even know what language I’m thinking in. Because, sometimes, when I try to sit down to write, the ideas and things I want to say pour out in the wrong language and I can’t translate them because not all things are inter-translatable, many things in different languages just exist in different dimensions. Because, most of the time, again, I need to fight the feeling of guilt, because part of my consciousness tells me that right now I’m in a place where I need to be looking at things that are more real and material, as there is not much time left until last piece of land I’m standing on disappears under my feet. And spend the time I try to spend writing, studying or working, cleaning, healing…
But, it seems, Alfred Kazin has said once that, “One writes to make home for oneself, on paper.”
and ohgod I need that home right now. Any kind of home

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