on Lispector’s Breath of Life

I have been touched by many writers but this is the first time I have ever cried, uncontrollably– relieved– as if I was opening a time capsule for the first time from a past life.  Why do I feel like I’m reading my autobiography??!– as if my last self had written it just so i could read it at this exact same moment in this lifetime to serve as a reminder that other galaxies exist beyond this nature?– of where I come from. of where I am going to.  of where I left off.  why does this all feel like I am traveling and returning, traveling and returning… is this what it feels like to be multi-conscious? where do you begin?  i am fading.  i know too much.  Uncertainty is the cousin of Hope but Hope always dies last.  is  this what it feels like to tap into the *eternal records?

page 37.

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