I don’t look back or forward. I look up.
I don’t like talking anymore
I don’t like going to the movies anymore
I don’t like editing anymore
I don’t enjoy the things I once did
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i feel so happy to be alive
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Sunday: light, feathering, butter soft, with vanilla
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May Sarton, from Recovering: A Journal
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4th oct '23 — spending the autumn equinox blowing my money on my vinyl collection and books i don't need, lingering outside cafes with friends, sharing a cigarette, and drinking way too much hot chocolate. it's a shallow existence.
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And yet I love this quiet clouded day. I love this settled stillness, and this feeling that, at any moment, down may come the rain. Should you say wasted? No, not really. Something is gathered. This quiet time brings one nearer.
Katherine Mansfield, from a diary entry featured in The Journal of Katherine Mansfield (1914-1922)
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closed my eyes and chose a random poem I wrote as a silly foretelling for the new year and it landed on a rare dumb romantic optimistic one so my hopes r high
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