💾 Archived View for tilde.pink › ~imbrica › en › txt › enough.gmi captured on 2023-01-29 at 05:29:33. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
⬅️ Previous capture (2021-12-03)
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There are endless things that were published today. They all fill up the feeds. It's impossible to keep up.
There's nothing to miss.
The voices I hear and make me anxious, the sense of disconnect, the sense that I must repair every relation, be in deep communion with all around me.
I have to let that go away now.
From this moment until I sleep, only the useless, the soothing and satiating will be allowed.
A month can go by and I haven't messaged anyone. Why? What is it that clogs up the space between us? Why do I reach out than wait for so long?
What happened to my sense of time?
What happened to me?
The doubt is taking over.
Why do I read and write in a foreign language? Who am I writing to? Who am I trying to reach, what land am I trying to find?
What's the purpose in so much writing?
I'm sick of seeing reality through the lens of attack, of critique, of the words "I, you, they". Who are those entities? What is represented by them? Why do I care so much for the connection, and yet am completely severed of it?
I don't care for the answers. My fingers scribble questions non-stop. My eyes grasp for words, my whole body then dives.
It was a delight to bring food back home. It's a delight to think of making tea and eating rice. But in my chest there's also a heavy paranoid ball of doubt, and it burns non-stop.
Why?
Only hatred comes from that memory. I have hatred for my trauma. I want to distill, to convert, transform, transcode it.
So nothing will stop me from doing that tonight.
No voice through the window, no screen-scrolling line.
It makes me angry to read how NT people don't really remember things. I just wish I could erase some.