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somewhere between brainrot and peak wisdom i post a lot about my current obsessions (which change way too often (lowkey a photo dump as well)
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six months ago i could sit with a thousand pages and not once feel the pull of anything else. now i can't open fifty. "the idiot" sits on my table. i bought it with the intention that i would read it over the summer break. the long slow pleasure of a difficult book. and now i look at it and something in me just closes. and i don’t think it’s from disinterest (atleast that's what i keep explaining to myself.) i want to read it desperately. it's that the wanting and the actual sitting down have come apart somehow, and i don't know how to push them back together. i miss it. that silence of being fully inside a book. i remember it well enough to know exactly what i've lost and i think that's what makes it so hard.
