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.

leave something

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s