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werewolf
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it's hard to think about life, and harder to write about it. to glamorize and stylelize your losses, to step back from the joy and wonder of your victories and turn them to cold insights. it is tiring to repeat each scene in your life as if you could've changed it, to constantly find new meanings and contrasts just to benefit some future which you know, based on the one dependable lesson of all these pasts, will still blindside you. it is so much easier to surrender, to be exiled graciously, not paralyzed like lot's wife. it is hard enough to remember the past we are forced away from without changing it, let alone to keep a record of it, to hold on so tightly. it all seems something so fragile that the moment we try to touch it, it will crumble. all of life seems a temptation to give up our memory, once we realize that the more we live, the more there is to leave behind, while all that we have yet to achieve still remains dauntingly infinite. there is no resolution, only arbitrary stops, the physical heart outpaces the conceptual one, or if lucky, vice versa. there is as in all sustained efforts, fatigue. and the past is no place to rest. it is just another battle, as alive as any future, as alive as some lonely sort's choked sobs muffled in disdain and pillow and habitual phrases and thick expanding night. Night empty and thin except for the occasional evidence of strangers clashing like lightning at various horizons.
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030113
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