It is late at night, Sunday, and I have spent the day reading about berry-pickers, about hierarchical racial + economic structures that exist even on family-run farms. I have spent the day composing half of an essay on James Joyce’s “A Little Cloud” from Dubliners. Doing laundry, making dinner, drinking lots of lemon water: these things I do to pass the time, but mostly because they need to be done.
I think about the people who used to be a significant part of my life—in a moment they are gone. How I can be gone in a moment, too. How family doesn’t always mean comfort but complication. Then words become meaningless when you say them over and over or stare at them for too long. They still mean so much. And the words I say, the words that determine my GPA—do they lose meaning? Meaning is relative, as is seemingly everything else. Those who profess the power of an ultimate truth, of exact solutions, are wrapped up in systematic lies. There is so much more to life than fact.