A Collection of Spectacles

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Speaking and thinking of my collection of somethings and everythings and nothings. Everything is something to me, but far too often now, it lies on the lowest wrung of meaning. What I mean is, if I find that I have to attribute more meaning than is readily presented, then it lies on the base level. It’s the difference between analyzing an event in retrospect and extracting whatever possible lessons learned, and knowing that an event is going to always have an impact on you while it happens in the present.

Everyone that matters is in the room, Siete de Mayo.

This position is always awkward and foreign to me, unwanted. I’ve searched in different faces, different forms, various shapes, but in the end, my body is always contorted in this uncomfortable, abstract pose. One hand is up, raised and extended outward to another while the other is kept close, clutching my own chest, legs in-between being spread and not. I’m suspended, alone dotted with unpredicted periods of comfort which just results in an evolved, bastardized form of lonely. It doesn’t matter who it is, sweet and well-intentioned, they only amplify solitude. People who write aren’t made to experience anything. It’s always weighted.

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