On Writing, Religion, Being lost, Dead dogs, Revolution and Hope


On Writing

To write of general and commonplace, was something I could never manage. I wonder now, if it was my vanity. Something I cannot keep my finger on hindered me from writing, it was like a silence whose origin I couldn’t exactly determine. It was not causeless, I know that and it did have a starting point. For some reason all that I am seems to circle and come back to the same event, it saddens me how momentous the event has become for me, all my thought, rationality, irrationality seems to arise from this point. It is sad when life lived every moment can only make sense of moments, that knowledge we so love/fear, we exalt them in importance, soon the moments are not some random events, they slowly lose contextual importance and assume moments of revelation and great truths/agonies in personal capacities. I don’t entertain this idea…

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