![]() ![]() ![]() I'm hilariously pining all the time for some lost feelings and I’ll be disappointed if someday I’m not allowed to make a living out of this obscure-ness. I’ve met myself, and I know that on most days I just write about longing for many moods and things. Not that I claim to have too many fascinating thoughts in general. I also have to admit that I don't have adequately interesting thoughts about each of them. In between these, there was some comfort in the non-fiction I read - essay collections by Durga Chew Bose ( Too Much and Not in the Mood ), Mary Oliver ( Upstream ) and Rebecca Solnit ( Men Explain Things to Me ).īut, as much as I would like to indulge in all the non-fiction I read, I'm exhausted and stacking words together feels almost impossible at this point. ![]() ![]() I don’t know what it says about me as a person if the stuff I’m reading now involve suicide ( All The Bright Places by Jenifer Niven) or the prospect of a ten years from now Hindu Rashtra ( Chosen Spirits by Samit Basu). But instead of quietly rewatching Bridget Jones’s Diary, my brain latched on books that are everything but comforting. After more than seventy days of staying in and hiding from the invisible virus it would seem like the world could use a break. ![]()
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