A story ended, at least that’s what I feel. Last night, I made my dinner for a change. Perhaps it’s about time I listened o my body and did a little more to take care of myself, for the sake of life. I took a break from the errands, sat on my bed, and read Clarice Lispector again, wondering how I felt this time around.

It’s strange, but since I’ve read it to myself over and over again, I feel like her words are already inside my body. And whenever I reread it, the words in the book interact with the cells in my body. "How do I see it this time?" They swirl around in my stomach, finding a place to land.

Do I adore her? Yes. Respect her? Absolutely. Do I feel compassion? More than I could imagine. But do I feel a slight difference from what I felt the last time I read it? Sure I do.

I used to feel that I could never write like her; that her book was all that needed to be read; that her work was the answer to all the questions I had in my mind at that time. And it helped me enormously because, finally, I could hold on to my ideas without questioning them—I was not going nuts, and the inexplicable things I felt in this world was somewhat validated through her words. But if so, what was I supposed to do? Go around and tell everyone to read her book? Like a missionary?

This time, I didn’t feel that way. And I’m sure Clarice doesn’t need me to feel that way either. If anyone were to follow her footsteps, they would have to be willing to be everything but her. And somehow, these few years have allowed me to have a different perspective—one worth telling, even though it might not be as eloquent nor sophisticated as hers.

"I am what am not you, and we should hold on to this solitude to stay alive."

As for the story that ended, I guess I was looking for ways to end it while flipping through the pages.  He is slowly noticing that the girl he started to wonder about is only in his imagination and not in reality. And if that's the case, he might as well stick to porn and jerking off to it. What is the difference? To love who exists is harder than hallucinating one to your own liking. And that's what media is for: to escape the unfathomable reality that is neither pleasing to your eye nor reassuring to your fragile ego.