Something about this place made me stagnant, sluggish. I felt trapped there. The grounds were covered in duck poop and thistle plants. Time limped forward.
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Oh, it was good for some things. It was just us alone so we could dance or scream into the dark lake at night, scaring the poor ducks. We cooked for each other (the only way we'd have food out there)
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It took me a while to notice the inner dissonance. "Of course I'd enjoy being in a private estate in the French countryside" was lacquered over my actual experience. Isolation wasn't as good as it seemed on paper. We all know that now.
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What we think we like is often royally off! Experimentation alters dreams. I used to dream of living in a cabin in the woods. That's since faded to a more urban ideal.
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It was so beautiful on the surface it seemed like folly to not enjoy it. But I didn't, and now the memory serves as a lesson to check: What's your actual experience like? Does it match your conception of what your experience should be like?pic.twitter.com/T8S3xrQOth
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Didn't you have, like, the best time the year before (or something)? What was different?
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This was a different thing, yeah
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