Words do seem meaningless. I regurgitate. After chewing on a character's observation of her inner workings I adopt her fragmentation. Doris is Anna; Anna becomes Ella then Anna, and so I become a regurgitated shard of mirror reflecting; Hopeless cycles. War. Violence. Inexplicable yearning for love. Cold, detached analysis. Detachment, and drifting.
Doris Lessing was what, 45 yrs old when she published her Golden Notebook in 1962.
Let me do a quick search... no, 43. She was about my age when she finished it then, late 30s.
And it's been 46 hrs since then. The themes are still relevant / prevalent.
The inertia is building again. I have to keep moving. A moving target is harder to hit, but who is hunting me? A cruel, mechanized world? Hardly, I am that mechanized world. Who am I hunting then?
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