it’s just that face-to-face interactions can sometimes be difficult.  i am faced with another person, another body, another mind (as in, another universe), and i am shocked, stunned, debilitated.  this is my experience of interface.  i immediately become a stranger to myself.

i can write but i can’t speak.  you’ll never know what i’m feeling or thinking unless i write you a letter.

Dear Whomever,

I am alone.  Something has been grating on my conscience.  It’s about the lifespan of memory.  Memory is the only thing I know of that is born (in experience) and dies (in forgetting), yet always remains somehow alive (in the body, memories re-emerge).  Whomever, this has been on my mind.  Whomever, where do I go from here?


About thedoubleequal

TheDoubleEqual is interested in Anais Nin, Smut and subtext, Queer literature, Intersections of oppression, Jewish communities, Memoir, Poetry, All art, Subways, and Violent spiritual awakenings. View all posts by thedoubleequal

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