I have set a couple of trays of salted caramel in the freezer to write this on my ageing macbook, bought with prize money from Being Clever And Passing An Interview, that is now a symbol of deterioration/a vestige from happier times.
I want to write this: that I am so excited and nervous and dreading the thought of leaving home to begin a new life (albeit with chains to organisation x) in liberal arts college y. I want to say, all my dreams are coming true and this scares me because I have nothing to look forward to now. I forget that the futures I construct for myself are couched in the language of melancholy; they stem from a loss that is so palpably felt in the present, with real physiological manifestations that frighten as much as they surprise me.
Generally: I cannot relate to the reciprocity of love/affection, perhaps because I am constantly sickened by imagining myself the agent for this. I will deny things repeatedly, in an incantational way, unchangingly. I am unchanging and mired in stasis. Shorn of accretions, I am signified by a lack, a yawning abyss, a pointless aperture that says Please don't even attempt to love this.
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