you still unfold me, you still make me soar

On Tuesday (before my world changed), I saw this tweet from Dim Lit Girl:

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and that same day, quoted in Masha Tupitsyn's Love Dog entry from September 1, 2012, I read this:

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And reading both of these I thought, yes, exactly. It is hard to be folded when you know what it is to be unfolded.

In that entry, called Daytime Moon, Masha goes on to say:

How to love. It’s not that it’s so difficult, per say. It’s that people don’t know how to want what they want, if in fact they really still do want. Mostly it’s a diffuse—why not?—desire. How to love people who don’t want to be loved even when they do and want to love even when they don’t. How to not just “want” love in theory, but to do (give/receive) love in practice. Or are we now too fucked up? Too used to being alone. This modality of isolation total, inside and out. The writer Sarah Schulman once wrote (in After Delores, I think) that it takes a long time to break down someone’s isolation. 

In Blind Date, Dufourmantelle writes that the wound never closes. I think that’s potentially a good thing. A way in. The worst is the wound that is there but won’t let anything—anyone—through. A barricaded wound. There, but not there. Open but closed. Wound as chimera. Wound as excuse. I can’t because I am wounded. I won’t because I am wounded. Once, so not again. Once, but not again.

Freud says we do not know how to renounce anything. And yet we are always performing renunciations. To prove what? To prove that we don’t need anything and are at peace with being failed and failing. Maybe we finally are. But fuck this. Fuck it. Fuck it. I want to fight my way out of it, for the one(s) who are worth fighting for. This is potentially everything and everyone.

My wound is still an opening, a way in, for someone. For the right person.

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