I dont like to ever go anywhere without bearing gifts, and the reason for my self imposed solitude is just that, when I feel like I have nothing to offer, there's nothing left in me to give
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the core tragedy of my life is that everything I do is intended to be an open hand, palm up, a welcoming, inviting, out-reaching monkey gesture, and through some strange trick of circumstance, the person I'm doing towards thinks it looks like a closed fist coming right at them
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that's been a constant repeating pattern in the fiction for a good long while while
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So I guess my whole thing now is a sort of reevaluation of that. Courting the sort of people who only ever practice closed fist style. avoiding the haunt of that terrible pattern
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It is a mistake, however, to go full relativist: "maybe striking is just "their" way of shaking hands". Categorical difference.
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Just like "men" don't just "express" caring "differently". Male friendship and universal (female) "caring" are entirely different concepts and cannot be meaningfully compared. We need more words, a finer set of tools to distinct
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I like the rough housing NOT because it is just some arbitrary, exchangeable metaphor for whatever real, "universal" intimicy is. I like it because it is too blunt to not be honest and simultaneously understood
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It is not an ideal solution however since I am at heart a drunken monkey
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To put it another way, I'd rather be cold and clear than be warm and completely muddied, because I can take no more of stewing in the primordial soup of social relations, my meat and skin have all boiled off and now I'm just a set of bones
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I often say to myself that everything is dead and all hope is lost. It's a bad habit, an intrusive recurring thought that I have to articulate to expel. I think it's more precise, apropos the soup, to say that everything has not yet been born and I can't stand the potential
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Maybe undeath was this all along? The decomposed ghoul, the zombie, the vampire, the liche. Terrible not for their failure to die, but for their failure to be alive. Primordial soup.
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Like how it's just instinctually unsatisfying when scientists talk about "microscopic" alien lifeforms, bacteria and the like. Something in ones heart must protest: No, that is a categorical error. Such things are not life!
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