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idk how to express this in a way that doesn't make me sound like a pseud but like i've been thinking about how history is comprised of a series of mundane events that are retrospectively given interpretive significance. viewing my actions in this light is devastating.
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the idea of autonomy is a spook, and nonetheless external motivations so egregious are impossible to ignore. i want ceaselessness. i want respite from the shallow unending grindstone gnawing away at my flesh. i’m unrecognizable, yet all too familiar. i want out.