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I Know You

“I know you, she said again, more confident in her memory, you were the one screaming at a telecommunications office in Victoria Island some days ago. I remember thinking and perhaps saying oh fuck, and immediately inserting all the little ideas she must’ve formed of the scene. As though sensing my thoughts, she began to describe the day, exacting the shirt I wore that Wednesday. It occurred to me then that she was the sort of person who was also used to being noticed, too. With heels, she stood almost same height with me, she had on silky straight wig parted in the middle. Her dress went a little over her knees but was still flattering, its fabric as gleeful as candy wrappers..”

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A Non-American Happiness

“I generally shy from thinking if I am happy or not anyway, because to examine if or not you are happy, is to make yourself available to the many possibilities of your unhappiness. I don’t know how to search for it as a feeling, primarily because it’s so American, because it’s a proxy for many things, more available as language I suppose. So even when someone says they are not "happy", they might be grasping for contentment, satisfaction. But they are still using the language of happiness..”

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Keside Anosike
The Twelfth of June (On Capitalism, Love and Things in between)

“I am one for whom company is myself. But therein is my fear of that brand of desire that births love: the arrival of change. That, for so long, I’d been doing all these things alone. That I do things alone. That I had been making sense of myself, alone. I mean, I can be happy alone. I can be sad alone. I can dance alone. I can be upset alone. But I cannot desire by myself, cannot quite activate the agencies of love without another’s presence. Desire is a feeling that by nature involves another subject, and that arrival creates quite an extraordinary experience for me - for anyone -, its intricacies largely unknown, tensed, possibly overwhelming, constantly being reshaped. What am I losing of myself?”

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In May, It Is Everything

 “When loss occurs, and after many years, it seems like that loss might have been explored and reconciled. But anyone living with the loss of someone they loved quite equally as they love the ongoing of life knows that to be untrue; that loss has no summary or tidiness, that the feeling is disruptive no matter how long ago it exacted itself. The geometry of loss is cunning like that, almost like a lover who hasn’t decided if or not they want to commit to you. There are strange odd days, and days when you’re sure that nothing else matters, when you are washed pure with gratitude for having even known them...”

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