A Collection of Spectacles

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5: Before we speak of occupation and revolt in fondness, before we try to pinpoint the external source of our inequality, we need to identify what is oppressive within each and every one of us.

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I have spent long hours accompanied by loneliness, the ever-present fog that drifts in through hidden cracks and overlooked openings. Lately, I’ve been living an incomplete life,  constantly covered in the byproducts of my own unhappiness. Constantly surrounded by air that is so damp and weighed down that it’s a wonder that I haven’t been asphyxiated in the night. Yes, yes, she lived a good life but was tragically smothered to death by her own noxious gases. 

Still, there is a glistening thought that I hang on to. 

The hope that, one day, I’ll wrap my lips around the sweet girth of a beautiful “maybe.” 

I used to hope for a million “yeses,” constant affirmation for all the questions that I had yet to phrase. Now, maybe I want something more substantial. 

When I look back on my youth (and all my experimental follies) I want to say that I’d had at least one genuine “something,” rather than a collection of memories, haphazardly gathered by the mind, that were notorious for their brevity.

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