Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.
I took two days off from work to catch up on school and have some much needed me time and wow this is so nice. Imagine always having time during the day to eat and do your hair and read for class and work on assignments before you get to school at night? Instead of working 9-3, rushing to the ferry, going to school until 9 sometimes 10 pm, coming home and trying to read instead of collapsing in bed but ultimately falling asleep without doing any work for class the next day.
What if I just never go back to work? (I can’t really do that because apartment and bills and responsibilities but it’s a nice thought)
Sometimes this really seems to shock people. They appear genuinely upset when I say ‘this conversation is over’ or ‘I’m actually not interested in debating this with you.’ There’s an expectation that if you care about social justice and political issues, you’re always ‘on.’ You’re always ready to debate, you’re always ready to have theoretical discussions about your own lived experiences and the issues you care about, you’re always ready to defend yourself. That’s manifestly ridiculous and unjust, an expectation that’s simply not reasonable.
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