I work with kids who have experienced shitty and traumatic lives from pretty much birth most of the time and I tend to notice that many of them are big readers. The thing that always, always comes through for me are my dear books. Life is a bitch, yet she still comes through for us sometimes, presenting a rainbow or unexpected money or a good friend’s advice, just when we need it. Life is a cyclical mess of inequity and anxiety, of grief and loss and tragedy. I keep saying that I feel zen, but it’s not zen, it’s like a lack of feeling, which is also depression, which I already have anyway. ![]() ![]() ![]() February is always such an emotional, strange, short little bullet of a month, isn’t it? And this February in particular is the penultimate month before a monumental marking of time - one year of a global pandemic.
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