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pesanteur.

Does writing–or any expressive art–grow more challenging with age? It seems to me that the older one gets, the heavier the weight of experience that saddles each word, each brushstroke, each note. How can any sentence avoid the force of the existence that gave it birth? How is this not overwhelming?

All I want to offer the world is beauty, and yet I feel so incapable. Beauty is a terrible and cruel force, and I am too timid, and uncertain.

(I wish I did not so abhor the tangible; I wish I did not so love it.)

I lost track of the miles I walked today, and what I saw. Today was sunny, but in a minor chord–a sunshine tempered through cloud–and this among more made me want to cry. I walked along the Sound–that strange body of water that is both ocean and not ocean,  somehow partialled from the Pacific, and of it–until my soles blistered and my shins stabbed, and until, in the lowing light, I stumbled home.

These words are weighted, and these words will never be heavy enough.

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