Though they hardly represent the place where I was born, I am generally drawn to them.
These weeks have been busy, not much space for myself or at least I don’t feel like admitting it. I’ve been reading again, started reading Murakami’s Underground and suddenly every single one of my spare moments is filled up with the tragedy of the world’s randomness. For ten minutes at a time, I lose my health, my wellbeing; my husband and my son; my past and my future; my sense of self, my understanding of the world. And somehow I don’t get it at all, how the world is made for some but refuses to give up a little corner for others, for the victims on both sides. We could find ourselves in any of the situations, really.
But in this secular world, I’m just another person trying to make it so I won’t feel guilty when I buy myself a nice new coat.
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