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cimorenei can't entirely convince my subconscious that my life is not a novel, or perhaps a very tightly-written novella. i keep trying to map literature onto events.
which is to say that i'm always looking for a pattern. like the plot should make sense. like there's some kind of poetic balance to everything. and, like, i can never shake this feeling that any problem with myself is soluble and reducible to one main theme, and that i already have all the pieces and all i have to do is put them together in the proper way.
and then everything will work out, like in a slash story, where it turns out that it was really all about trust, or it was all about taking chances, or it was all about belonging, or it was all about accepting yourself, or... right.
but i don't know if i want to accept the world the other way. i mean, i do, intellectually, know that it isn't, but perhaps i shouldn't try to break myself of this habit.
which is to say that i'm always looking for a pattern. like the plot should make sense. like there's some kind of poetic balance to everything. and, like, i can never shake this feeling that any problem with myself is soluble and reducible to one main theme, and that i already have all the pieces and all i have to do is put them together in the proper way.
and then everything will work out, like in a slash story, where it turns out that it was really all about trust, or it was all about taking chances, or it was all about belonging, or it was all about accepting yourself, or... right.
but i don't know if i want to accept the world the other way. i mean, i do, intellectually, know that it isn't, but perhaps i shouldn't try to break myself of this habit.
