Reading these old notebooks, i see how i once revelled in words, their sound, their texture, elegance, permutations; they were playthings to me
Honestly im a bit emotional from reading this one old notebook in particular – not because of anything specific about its contents, but rather about a certain quality of content that is not present: flipping and flipping and flipping i have yet to come across, in the aforementioned book or any other ive opened thus far, any mention of queerness – not in my personal feelings, nothing in reference to any crush (of which i surely have had a great many); no mention (not directly at least?) of the sad strain between my father and i, and the rest of my family for that matter. where is it? where is this content crucial to the map of my psyche?
a tear, one tear, has been creeping down my cheek for the entirety of this page; ive just unthinkingly wiped it away
Ay! the sad irony – reliving this wipe-away, my washing over with words! no wonder i grew to hate my fey ways, and my given name