who you are - by Nix 🕊 - starting from nix

This is bliss: fistfuls of mustard greens and chard on Sunday mornings, a room that smells like bergamot, Miyazaki and Tarkovsky movies in the Mission’s Roxie, a gnawing nostalgia for childhood. You buy paperbacks by John Berger, Greg Egan, Magda Szabó, and you desperately want a hardcover of Es Devlin’s Atlas. You’ve been wandering for some time, trying to figure out what you could create for yourself. A pocket of reality that is yours and yours alone. The questions you’re asking are age-old. The origin of so many reveries, agonies, yearnings, dreams. What to do with yourself? What to pursue? The decision paths narrow as time goes on. You find yourself following a trail deep into the forest, and when you turn back, the road behind has disappeared. Nowadays you don’t fixate anymore on the pulse of what could’ve been, for the weeds you had to pull out, for the distance and space and light and time. Forward motion is comforting. It’s sorrowful too, because so many parts get reconfigured.

This is bliss: fistfuls of mustard greens and chard on Sunday mornings, a room that smells like bergamot, Miyazaki and Tarkovsky movies in the Mission’s Roxie, a gnawing nostalgia for childhood. You buy paperbacks by John Berger, Greg Egan, Magda Szabó, and you desperately want a hardcover of Es Devlin’s Atlas. You’ve been wandering for some time, trying to figure out what you could create for yourself. A pocket of reality that is yours and yours alone. The questions you’re asking are age-old. The origin of so many reveries, agonies, yearnings, dreams. What to do with yourself? What to pursue?