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An Explanation (I am Filled With Explanations, My Father Complains)

July 2, 2011

I have not written in a month. Not since my grandmother’s death. Not in my journal, not even a poem.

In a message to a friend I wrote “what can one do  but pick themselves out of bed and go to the coffee shop.”

I know not how to deal with these emotions, least of all how to write about them. In an attempt to keep the pen flowing (and the threads of sanity from unraveling, this feels overwritten, is this overwriten?) I forced myself to sit down with my journal, “I am sad. That is all.”

So I am sitting here in my bed, eating slices of prosciutto. I own three different shades of red lipstick. In the last month I have read To Have and Have Not, Naked Lunch, and most of A Literate Passion. I tell myself that there is importance in the number three, but I cannot think of a third set.

An old friend, one who I have barely spoken to in years in moving to New York. A friend I made when I first moved here is moving back. Sometimes I think that I am wasting my life here in Brooklyn.

Gordon just called me. Post-modern meta-fiction is all we need to cure the world’s ailments, am I right?

I want to move to Spain when I graduate. That may be in two years, it may be in 500. I will move to Spain and weekend in Paris and write lovely letters to my friends in Switzerland and Italy.

Gordon: But, she’s going to be okay.

Leith: I mean we all are.

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