life, it seems, in thirds

Commiserations in the negative, the mutuality of dissatisfaction and disgust, even anger, if delicate senses of wished-for dignity found offense to take. Storybook characters thinking themselves descended of Caulfield, but to what end? Conclusions are such a funny preoccupation of youth, dawn obsessed with dusk.

What’s a word for “less inferior?” Standing under the brightest sun, seeing how small acts of apparent non-participation—like listening to Chopin in the gym—are still participation, as self, but free. Strangest of all is that trusting memory and seeing the future as owed are strange only to some.

Seeing truths sooner than in those Catcher days, and laughing retrointrospective at the ironies inherent in the impostor syndrome’s symptoms. Who knows, working with what we have and just beginning to grow, with far less to say about the badges of weirdness and mania. Des ennuis, des chagrins, s’effacent. Or so imagined.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.