i hadn't looked in here in so long and i'd forgotten what i wrote. it's not what i'd remembered, exactly. better somehow, and again somehow more removed from me. i feel like i'm forgetting how to write, or at least how to write the same words. the sensation of my fingers on a keyboard is feeling foreign now. my hands spend more time touching fabric, feeling its weight, pressing cloth into machines and onto hangers and across countertops. my life reshapes itself. codes and roads are remade. it is different.
several things have changed since last i'd written, and i'm not sure i feel like getting into it. it's substantial, strange, good. i don't think i'd have imagined so much comfort in the precarious. i'm not sure i can stand the poverty for long, but that's incentive to work, and that is welcome. sometimes i marvel stupidly at the vast possibility for change. in the smallest things how large that can be. it is good, strange, quick, and plodding. i have made peace about some things. how you don't have to make love end. how love isn't all lockstep sameness. that independent desires don't mean the end. how i want it to last and how even when it's bad for the silliest reasons i'd never endanger it. how that's unthinkable, and how it never was before. back when i was another me. and other things. how tricking myself will always remain ineffective. the way my brain may always evade order. how that is okay. the way i am often so often in need of more sleep.