Sunday / 7724 [entry]
a poem
I think about how far we’ve come / the privilege I have to stand upon history / remaining relatively unscathed / to have the space to process / to name emotions / to feel emotions / than to survive an unsurvivable cruelty / and lack of hope for humanity / the kind that fosters one / to invite aliens to take over / because there is no more hope for humanity
I was shocked / that censorship did not take away / from the storytelling / wondering which aspects had been taken away / which parts original / which parts edited / the fierce debate / from others / committed to originality / blinded by the fact that originality may have not been original / because of rules / and that only with time the truth will tell.
We made meatballs / with no plan // the green beans smelled sour / despite the roasting / they were, in a way, dehydrated rather than roasted / an irony / to my dismay // pasta salad always seems much more than it seems // pasta, expand, sophon-like //
and for good measure / I made sweet and sour sauce // to my absolute horror but curiosity / I learned it was literally just sweet (sugar) and sour (vinegar) sauce / one part each / nothing fancy // what I made was / of the right flavour / close in viscosity / but oh so very wrong in colour / making me wonder // making me wonder /// making me wonder
