i have been having a hard time making the choices my consciousness needs to work itself through what's left of this year. i spent the whole of last month trying to recover from what the first half of the year left us. it's impossible to face a world where climate change is a neverending reality and i'm being consumed by someone else's bad management choices. i wish it was my mistake that could be fixed by saying i was sorry, but even writing these words is taking a harder time than i thought.
i used to read a lot and copy the style, i used to interact with stories long after they were gone. i read two books in the past two months. one was by aldous huxley, which i found dull, uninteresting; and the second was by alessandro baricco, which was fascinating. both of them were short stories, with shallow characters, but baricco's style is endaring; tales about silk being brought from japan, a string of love that consumes itself, a war that never happens, the figuration of the end of the world... it was as beautiful as a desert sunset. as beautiful as your skin.
on saturday we spent so much time talking about the depth of the mundane world we live in. there are no secrets between us so it demands conversation to transform itself. there's no hiding in the shadows, there's only a continuous stream of discussion. i have never been more in love with you that when we can talk about everything and nothing at the same time.