Today has been a day of dissatisfaction, of restlessness vying with listlessness, of wanting to revitalise myself by ripping myself apart, but not having the belief in anything to motivate such an action, even if it had been at all feasible as a practical activity.
I'm feeling that here I've set up a situation, just as in Mirror Sister previously , in which trans is expected to be the cause and the solution of everything for me, as well as the topic that interests me much more than anything else. I have tied trans up with fundamental existential concerns, have tied my blog writing up with how I am viewing myself, to the extent that this doesn't seem like a blog about just one of my interests, as if should you want to read me writing about a different interest you could go elsewhere.
So much has been written about trans by so many people, maybe there's nothing fresh to say?
My writing asserts an identity, justifies attitudes. But then I feel confined by that identity, those attitudes.
I never said that trans explains me, is the source of all my angsts and pleasures, or that it contains in itself even the potential for a solution to unhappiness.
That is what Miss Deborah Kate is thinking as she takes off her ballet shoes tonight.
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