First impressions and analysis.
Emotional intelligence and emotional stupidity.
I remember the innocence of not being disillusioned, 
No walls around me, no weapons, no associations,
No disposition towards cowardice. 
No emotional algebra; only simply addition and subtraction. 
Only this moment and its infinite possibilities.
- How many fantasies in an infinitesimal space?
I want to roam, wild and uninhibited.
To let let the demons go, but they linger.
Reciting my worn out quotes as though they were the Qur'an or the Bible,
- without thinking.
Programmed to suspect, to mistrust.
I say I am open-minded, but what I think is.
And if it is, what does that make me?
What does that make you?


And I find myself where I said I would not return.
In the way of myself.
Tripping on a shoelace I left untied on purpose. 
Cutting myself on knives laid out in perfect asymmetry on the floor.
Every inch of me asking why, but nobody ever answers.
When you are chasing ghosts you know what to expect. 
When the ghosts are chasing you, you don't know where you are safe.
Are we ever safe?
I remember, althought it is not really a memory.
It is a familiar scent tugging at my heart,
Perhaps a premonition, perhaps a warning.
That giving everything and nothing simultaneously is unbearable.
However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.
I need to come to terms with this before anything else.
| insert appropriate metaphor |

the unbearable weight of emotional algebra

The body can endure compromise and the mind can be seduced by it.
Only the heart protests.
In a new environment it is easy to forget. 
Easy and impossible just like anything worth remembering always is. 
I write to keep, but I do not want to keep all the things I write.
Erasing does not work in real life, so why would it do so in fiction?
At the beginning of every new chapter you must decide what to do with the past one.
And all the ones that came before that,
where do they fit in, how do they relate, what do they say about me?
Am I true to myself or do I make compromises so that I can go on writing?
It is easier to live among words and letters than people. 
Is it the power? The manipulation? The detachment?
I don't want to connect the dots while disconnecting myself.
The distinction between these two worlds has never been more clear.
Having poured all of myself into words, phrases, aphorisms,
I do not want to become a closed book on the shelf.
Why keep writing emotional algebra when I never could solve equations?

It is written.

There is a part in me- as in most others- that doesn't want to grow up.
A part that violently rejects conformity, adhering to the rules, doing things in the right order.
For the past ten years I have lived in ten different places
home and away, big and small, exotic and mundane..
But this is the first time that I brought my whole self to my new home.
The first time I packed all my guardians, my safety blankets; all my books
Despite the burden, because it is an easy one to carry.
Books make everything easier. 
Oscar Wilde wrote that literature always anticipates life, never copies it. 
He felt literature is what actually makes life what it is, creating it, pushing it forward. 
So much has been written about writing. Much more than what has been said about saying.
Words are all we have to try to describe what they do to us.  
So I spread them around everywhere.
Reading yourself as fiction as well as a fact is the only way to keep the narrative open. 
The only way to stop the story running away under its own momentum, 
often towards an ending that nobody wants.

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