Probably It Will Not Be Okay
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Why was I so caught up in the “real story”? So certain there was something to be told. So certain there needed to be something holding things together. Where does this desire come from, the desire to impose meaning or narrative on something that resists such impositions. The desire to create a center when something has no center. A threat to our understanding, or, more, a threat to our ways of understanding. I don’t want to assign meaning to what I’ve written. I don’t want to say: J and N are searching for home. I don’t want to say: J and N are trying to remember something they have never had. I don’t want to say: J and N find belonging in desolation and being separated from other people. None of those are what I was writing. But in a way, all of those could be things that I wrote.