Excerpt 1 -- from a new essay series

Work in progress - (for interera.co)

I like the poets but the poets don’t like me: they don’t like survivors. A way we abuse each other on this Earth is by acting like our love is conditional of the other person’s behaviour. I behave and behave, and I get nothing; I tell myself that at least I’ve tried. Where there is no grace, there is only judgement. But there are a thousand things to judge about each other either way, we get to choose how we want to feel at all times. I want to not behave, to somehow stop, but without being tactless. I want to stop behaving because it doesn’t really work. We behave to cover the facts of our survival, that we’ll be fine either way; we’re living and apologising, for still wanting things, for being in action. Whatever would I do with myself in a state of complete honesty, open in my strength, showing it, seeing things for what they are and myself not like Sartre’s heroine always in the eyes of someone else, a reflection. There can be a purity to goals but there is no purity of intention: I am driven by practicality and curiosity too when I ask you, not just my snow-white good heart. Nothing on Earth is immaculate, then we’d have nothing to do and no one to strive to become. Hold my hand so we can both learn how to be better.