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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<feed xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/">
<title>Uzayer Masud</title>
<link href="https://uzayer.me/feed.xml" rel="self" />
<link href="https://uzayer.me" />
<updated>2024-12-26T15:59:25+06:00</updated>
<author>
<name>Uzayer Masud</name>
</author>
<id>https://uzayer.me</id>
<entry>
<title>the summer (2021) i learned what gold means</title>
<author>
<name>Uzayer Masud</name>
</author>
<link href="https://uzayer.me/the-summer-2021-i-learned-what-gold-means.html"/>
<id>https://uzayer.me/the-summer-2021-i-learned-what-gold-means.html</id>
<updated>2024-10-08T15:40:00+06:00</updated>
<summary>
<![CDATA[
I. it was the month my father left and my mother learned how to laugh again i sat down for lunch in the same construed table with trinkets collected over years as she and i pulled the afternoon apart with a fork she always wore…
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</summary>
<content type="html">
<![CDATA[
<p>I. it was the month my father left<br>and my mother learned how to laugh again<br><br>i sat down for lunch in the same<br>construed table with trinkets<br><br>collected over years as she and i<br>pulled the afternoon apart with a fork<br><br>she always wore a gold bracelet<br>dulled by humid air that hung heavy<br>but you’re supposed to have two<br><br>it was the first jewellery my father bought<br>and he said he would buy her another one<br>when he had the money again<br><br>the years went by, their marriage fell apart<br>she has not taken it off since 2001<br><br>II. two months earlier she would show me<br>her jewellery box, organised, neatly placed, picked apart<br><br>she said this is all i ever owned, and she picked one up<br>placed it on my hand and said<br>this one’s for your wife, this for your brother’s<br><br>this one for turham’s, he’s like my son too<br>she said, this is all i ever owned -<br>i wonder if it would be different if i had daughters instead<br><br>it is a strange feeling to see your parent as a person<br>vulnerable, and utterly helpless - a child unburdened<br><br>i don’t know what it was but i cried in the kitchen sink that day<br><br><br>III. i was six and it was eid<br>she complained that she was out of money<br>i took whatever i got that day and put it in her purse<br><br>she never knew it was me while i glanced<br>as i made a paradise out of lego bricks<br>and spoonfuls of powdered milk<br>underneath the kitchen sink<br><br>romeo told me in his twenties all his poems were just angry<br>i think, we forget things if we have nobody to tell them to</p>
]]>
</content>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>the etymology of love</title>
<author>
<name>Uzayer Masud</name>
</author>
<link href="https://uzayer.me/the-etymology-of-love.html"/>
<id>https://uzayer.me/the-etymology-of-love.html</id>
<updated>2024-04-06T15:33:00+06:00</updated>
<summary>
<![CDATA[
to believe that in your full humanity you were a mosaic of everything you have seen and all the people you have ever loved i. dhaka unfolds me with its stenches traffic and what- not ii. the sun spills on the sidewalk like runny yellow…
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</summary>
<content type="html">
<![CDATA[
<p>to believe that in your full humanity<br>you were a mosaic of everything you have seen<br>and all the people you have ever loved<br><br>i. dhaka unfolds me with its stenches<br>traffic and what-<br>not<br><br>ii. the sun spills on the sidewalk like runny yellow yolk<br>folk music i hear on dirt sometimes holds<br>my attention elastic<br><br>iii. beneath five floors two children make a paradise out of<br>one pile of sand. five fingers one hand a slap on the tyre makes it run faster<br><br>iv. i see the leaves break the skin of the water we call a<br>lake, unmade of tongues<br><br>you pause more often now<br>writing unfinished poetry<br>in a language your mother was beaten into memorising</p>
]]>
</content>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>Nazrul's Immaculate Rizz - My Experience with Bangla and Internet Culture</title>
<author>
<name>Uzayer Masud</name>
</author>
<link href="https://uzayer.me/nazruls-immaculate-rizz-my-experience-with-bangla-and-internet-culture.html"/>
<id>https://uzayer.me/nazruls-immaculate-rizz-my-experience-with-bangla-and-internet-culture.html</id>
<updated>2024-03-05T15:59:00+06:00</updated>
<summary>
<![CDATA[
My relationship with the language I was born with has changed significantly over time, and this particular metamorphosis has come at a time of self-actualisation as I grow into adulthood. I strongly believe that language shapes the way we perceive the world. There is the…
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</summary>
<content type="html">
<![CDATA[
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">My relationship with the language I was born with has changed significantly over time, and this particular metamorphosis has come at a time of self-actualisation as I grow into adulthood.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I strongly believe that language shapes the way we perceive the world. There is the English I speak and breathe, then there's the broken business English that my father uses to communicate emotionally difficult confessions because Bangla strikes too hard on the heart. There is the Bangla I hated so strongly in fourth grade and the Bangla the people in my life speak with patient, observant love. All of these languages in their many </span><span style="font-weight: 400;">faces coexist in my life and my perception changes with every one of them.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">A couple of months back, I wiped the dust off my mother's dying hard drive to upload it to Google. After shifting through random wedding photos and quite a few birthdays, I found an old video of me speaking to my parents. I was four years old at the time and talked a lot. What I did notice was that my speech was entirely in Bangla.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">As a child, the media I consumed (over which I had no control) consisted of UNICEF's Meena cartoons and children's poetry my parents would make me learn. Another major source of content were the stories that my aunt, a cultural anthropologist, would read to me. Two years later, I would have a music teacher who would teach me how to play harmonium and sing Rabindra Sangeet, all of which I have now forgotten.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">It seems very impossible now. I have to put in a lot more effort to speak entirely in Bangla, or even read it. I genuinely try, but constantly find myself unable to express my thoughts the way I want to. English has become the language that I think in and exercise so much control over. I understand its tones, its nuances and cultural references. In my mind, it feels like home. It was the language that accepted me, or understood me in an intolerant society. That allowed me to exist as more than my mother's thinly veiled "do you have a </span><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">different</span></i><span style="font-weight: 400;"> type of problem?" - the concept of queerness being so shocking that she never said it out loud.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I hated learning Bangla when I started going to school. I was mostly guilted and shamed into it for the entire time I had to learn it there. We had only one class for it </span><span style="font-weight: 400;">and had very little exposure and practice with its written form. On the other hand, English literature classes had books so pretty they never felt like studying for me. Bangla had stories written in verbose words I was too young to comprehend. (This is why Shakespeare should be taught in tenth grade, not seventh).</span></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">তোমার নিজের মাতৃভাষা তুমি শিখবা না?<br></span></i><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">Won't you learn your own mother's tongue?</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">When I write in English, I have verisimilitude, the "truthiness" that makes you believe that what I'm saying really is true. In English, I have flow, and more importantly, experience. I have a sense of belonging. Unfortunately, with Bangla, I have none of that.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I find myself having cultural clashes with my mother, someone I have been living with for the past 18 years. I feel a sort of guilt and disconnect. I struggle to understand her completely. I write unfinished poetry in a language she was beaten into memorising. Despite that, through many conversations and introspection, I have narrowed down the reason to the fact that we as a generation simply no longer occupy the cultural or literary spaces that our parents did.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Instagram and TikTok (far, far more than Facebook), are a sort of abstract neighbourhood that we hang out in when we have time. As a former 14 year old, I understand the lack of demand to learn the language because Bangla simply isn't how we communicate on the internet. Our generation has moulded English into further sub-dialects that don't belong to an area and introduced nuances that would be indiscernible to the outsider who has no concept of what "rizz¹" is. Teenagers in the 80's did not speak in fluent, well articulated sentences and they will certainly not start now. Language will continue to evolve as long as people evolve. Languages are fluid and English has changed, Bangla, at least for us, has not.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">This abstract space that we occupy is an oversaturated representation of reality in the middle of the AI revolution. It is not a real place yet it is the unshakeable town square of our generation. It is the perfect place for us to lose our sense of self. In our hyper-targeted, curated feed, we see so many people in there from around the world (mostly from the US) and so many cultures (again, US immigrants). Our desire to fit in contradicts heavily with the notion of learning a language we speak well but cannot write properly.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Our consumerist, secular, modern life leaves very little scope to break from the perceived norm. The way we have built up our lives in my particular demographic, has left no room for original thought, or a moment of calm. Relaxation is essentially consuming hyper-curated media (that sometimes create echo-hells) on our phones, and all of this is in English. Language shapes thought, and thought shapes culture. And that is the one that we internalise and inhibit.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">On another observation, my brother is six years younger than me, on the cusp of adolescence. His clashes with my mother remind me exactly of the miscommunication that I faced when I was younger, precisely due to this cultural disconnect. Only I had no one who would understand me at home back then.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I noticed a friend of his, Samara, shortening her name to Sam, and eventually changing it to Samantha on Instagram. A complete deviation from the original Bangla. This anglicisation of her name was deliberate, yet very much a subconscious move to fit in with a growing global world. Another attempt at avoiding social rejection.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">My goal is not to critique social media but to provide a window for understanding and consolation into the growing cultural disconnect that I have with my parents, and that the vast majority of my generation and peers have had.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">It is also important that we recognize what the world is as of now. After 200 years of British rule over Bengal, and English being the language of the ruling class, it has been ingrained into our collective consciousness that English is the superior tongue.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">We also lose more of our own culture as we try to fit the mould of another, and our literature reflects that. Rabindranath's writing has incredible undertones of femininity in it, despite him being a bearded man. The concept of gender being intrinsically fluid in nature is prevalent all throughout his work. It is not black and white. His characters are androgynous and the ideas are far more freeing: a break from the monotony we face with the English (precisely due to the church and the state deeming all of this as savage demonic ideas from an uncivilised people).</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">He was from a wealthy family that had supported the humanities for generations. He learnt English well enough to translate his own work, ultimately winning himself the Nobel Prize in Literature and exposing Bengali literature to the West. By comparison, Kazi Nazrul was born to Bengal's poorest of the poor. He had no interest in English. His works were later crudely translated, which the then British government used to label him as an anti-British, anti-government rebel.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">English was, and still is, the lingua franca for the world we live in. Ignoring it would be a grave mistake but not learning Bangla as well provides a hole for us to fall into wherein we lose our identity.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Very recently I have started to reconnect with the culture I grew up in. I started watching movies by Satyajit Ray, and listening to Nazrul Geeti (which I wish I understood as well as I understand Sylvia Plath or Arundhati Roy).</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Because after all this time it gives me a handle to a part of my psyche I had forgotten. Self-identity has always been something every person spends their adolescence and perhaps a fair part of their twenties trying to find and establish. I enjoy listening to this music, despite not understanding it fully. I love watching these movies. It gives me a space to occupy in the abstract neighbourhood I call home.</span></p>
<blockquote>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">সৃজন ছন্দে আনন্দে নাচো নটরাজ<br></span><span style="font-weight: 400;">হে মহকাল প্রলয়–তাল ভোলো ভোলো।।<br></span><span style="font-weight: 400;">- কাজী নজরুল</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Oh Notoraj!<br></span><span style="font-weight: 400;">Dance to the joy of creation<br></span><span style="font-weight: 400;">Bury your fervour of destruction<br></span><span style="font-weight: 400;"> - Kazi Nazrul</span></p>
</blockquote>
<hr>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Rizz ¹ - 2020s internet lingo for one’s ability to attract another person in a romantic sense. Short for “charisma”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Notoraj ² - The deity of dance. A depiction of the Hindu god Shiva as the divine cosmic dancer.</span></p>
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</content>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>the etymology of i want to go home</title>
<author>
<name>Uzayer Masud</name>
</author>
<link href="https://uzayer.me/the-etymology-of-i-want-to-go-home.html"/>
<id>https://uzayer.me/the-etymology-of-i-want-to-go-home.html</id>
<updated>2024-01-14T15:34:00+06:00</updated>
<summary>
<![CDATA[
a thousand leaves, more than a thousand in fact green on brown on green on brown, waving, unanimously swing in open defiance of my frustration with this godforsaken land and perhaps for the first time in years i feel like a child bruiseless, in awe,…
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</summary>
<content type="html">
<![CDATA[
<p>a thousand leaves, more than a thousand in fact<br>green on brown on green on brown, waving,<br>unanimously swing in open defiance<br>of my frustration with this godforsaken land<br><br>and perhaps for the first time in years<br>i feel like a child bruiseless,<br>in awe, with a tinge of melancholic wonder<br>as i walk when the sweaty sweltering sun<br>has been swapped for clouds magnificent - and the heat<br>the heat the doesn't pierce my skin anymore<br><br>is this the liberation of living for oneself<br>when all ties have been severed/freed(om)?<br>or the concentration of an inner child<br>who now sees the world for the first time<br>broken proustian habit<br><br>a thousand yellow daisies traded for a thousand yellow leaves<br>and till this day, when i remember the gentler years<br>of a sweet summer child, i think to myself - deciduous?</p>
]]>
</content>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>mangeshkar piggyback</title>
<author>
<name>Uzayer Masud</name>
</author>
<link href="https://uzayer.me/mangeshkar-piggyback.html"/>
<id>https://uzayer.me/mangeshkar-piggyback.html</id>
<updated>2023-11-13T15:57:00+06:00</updated>
<summary>
<![CDATA[
panchhi banoon udti phiru mast gagan mein To be a bird and fly in the magnificent skies you tell me to live life for the living aaj main aazaad hoon duniyaa ke chaman mein And today I am free in the garden of the world…
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</summary>
<content type="html">
<![CDATA[
<p>panchhi banoon udti phiru mast gagan mein<br><em>To be a bird and fly in the magnificent skies<br></em><span style="color: #e03e2d;">you tell me to live life for the living</span></p>
<p><br>aaj main aazaad hoon duniyaa ke chaman mein<br><em>And today I am free in the garden of the world<br></em><span style="color: #e03e2d;">and not the capitalist imperial gods</span></p>
<p>mere jivan mein chamkaa saveraa<br><em>This morning light shines brightly in my life</em><br><span style="color: #e03e2d;">but i gotta make friends, make money and the whole act work</span><br><br>mera dil se vo gham ka andheraa<br><em>Removing the darkness of sorrow from my heart</em><br><span style="color: #e03e2d;">intellectualise my feelings and commodify my art</span><br><br>hare kheton mein gaaye koi lehraa<br><em>Someone sings, billowing in the green fields</em><br><span style="color: #e03e2d;">how do i tell you i am alive, alive, alive</span><br><br>yahaan dil par kisi kaa na pehraa<br><em>No one guards the heart over here<br></em><span style="color: #e03e2d;">that i have lived and want to fly</span><br><br>rang bahaaron ne bharaa mere jiivan mein<br><em>This Spring paints my life with colour</em><br><span style="color: #e03e2d;">when every essay is about identity politics</span><br><br>aaj main aazaad hoon duniyaa ke chaman mein<br><em>And today I am free in the garden of the world</em><br><span style="color: #e03e2d;">and you decide to quantify my life</span></p>
]]>
</content>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>elegy for friends lost to empires beyond waters unfamiliar</title>
<author>
<name>Uzayer Masud</name>
</author>
<link href="https://uzayer.me/elegy-for-friends-lost-to-empires-beyond-waters-unfamiliar.html"/>
<id>https://uzayer.me/elegy-for-friends-lost-to-empires-beyond-waters-unfamiliar.html</id>
<updated>2023-10-10T15:26:00+06:00</updated>
<summary>
<![CDATA[
it was the summer i became a whore runny sunlight like broken yolk on concrete my room swells like a sore throat today and i think of you, how do i tell you i am alive, alive and i want you to live too, but…
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</summary>
<content type="html">
<![CDATA[
<p><br><br>it was the summer i became a whore<br>runny sunlight like broken yolk on concrete<br>my room swells like a sore throat today<br>and i think of you, how do i tell you i am alive, alive<br>and i want you to live too, but i miss you<br><br>i listen to daniel caesar now<br>and i think of you when you're not here<br>love and loss never comes in stages<br>i learned how to dress, did you know?<br><br>longing doesn't begin to describe it<br>i know you left, soon, i'll leave too<br>i wish we could meet again \ my place tomorrow?<br>empty chairs at the dining table all around<br><br>what once was lost cannot be found<br>i write pesudotranscendentalist poetry to cope<br>it doesn't roll off the tongue, but it's me<br>come back home one day, would you?</p>
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</content>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>my father, drunk, talking to me in bed</title>
<author>
<name>Uzayer Masud</name>
</author>
<link href="https://uzayer.me/my-father-drunk-talking-to-me-in-bed.html"/>
<id>https://uzayer.me/my-father-drunk-talking-to-me-in-bed.html</id>
<updated>2023-03-21T15:37:00+06:00</updated>
<summary>
<![CDATA[
dying bastard plays piano the curtains blindsided a weak yellow haze sugary sweet outside brown rustle, balm to my soul inhale: the heat curled around me like a child in desperation on a hot July night talking was simple, when maa wasn’t there exhale: I…
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</summary>
<content type="html">
<![CDATA[
<div>dying bastard plays piano</div>
<div>the curtains blindsided</div>
<div>a weak yellow haze</div>
<div>sugary sweet outside brown rustle,</div>
<div>balm to my soul</div>
<div> </div>
<div>inhale:</div>
<div>the heat curled around me</div>
<div>like a child in</div>
<div>desperation on a hot July night</div>
<div>talking was simple,</div>
<div>when maa wasn’t there</div>
<div> </div>
<div>exhale:</div>
<div>I breathe through heaped lungs</div>
<div>your bloodshot eyes</div>
<div>slurring as dawn ignites on</div>
<div>the eastern skies</div>
<div>caramel lights of day-break</div>
<div>still stuck to my soul</div>
<div>brings ants of demons / I want nothing.</div>
<div>crawls and bites</div>
<div> </div>
<div>inhale:</div>
<div>I brace for impact</div>
<div>like I have done a thousand times</div>
<div>before</div>
<div>the blow never came</div>
<div>physically, the silent tension</div>
<div>I sat and let the</div>
<div>words flow of your slurred speech</div>
<div>I want to break free.</div>
<div> </div>
<div>exhale:</div>
<div>your words like</div>
<div>blood</div>
<div>nurture my tree to grow, too fast</div>
<div>too abrupt</div>
<div> </div>
<div>dreams of being a professor</div>
<div>from mother to son to son</div>
<div>seventy years</div>
<div> </div>
<div>the crack is where the light enters</div>
<div> </div>
<div>verisimilitude</div>
<div> </div>
<div>the broken shards of vodka glass</div>
<div>like your promises, on the floor</div>
<div>they are not mine.</div>
<div>To give.</div>
<div>Do not accept it.</div>
<div> </div>
<div>I cry as I watch the great</div>
<div>Surrounds</div>
<div>a monster’s broken dreams // mirrors to bring</div>
<div>to see myself as such.</div>
<div>Liar.</div>
<div> </div>
<div>my birdsong still plays the same</div>
<div>devotion always came so easy to you</div>
]]>
</content>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>handprints on the unpartitioned map of india</title>
<author>
<name>Uzayer Masud</name>
</author>
<link href="https://uzayer.me/handprints-on-the-unpartitioned-map-of-india.html"/>
<id>https://uzayer.me/handprints-on-the-unpartitioned-map-of-india.html</id>
<updated>2022-07-23T15:35:00+06:00</updated>
<summary>
<![CDATA[
your eyes are black deep like the caves of Lascaux i put my palm against yours fingers too, soon intertwined trace the shapes in my mind, outlines drawing chickens, or a duck like children on paper glue on googly eyes for added effect crayons melting…
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</summary>
<content type="html">
<![CDATA[
<p>your eyes are black<br>deep like the caves of Lascaux<br>i put my palm against yours<br>fingers too, soon intertwined<br><br>trace the shapes in my mind, outlines<br>drawing chickens, or a duck<br>like children on paper<br>glue on googly eyes for added effect<br>crayons melting onto it, unto us<br>our handprints on cave walls<br>16,000 years ago<br><br>your face is a mirror, i stare into it<br>my hand against yours is<br>the intrinsic act of self discovery<br><em>but do you believe me?</em><br><em>of course you do, why wouldn't you?</em><br><br>when i ask you to close your eyes<br>do you see the face of god within me?<br>in the drawn out lines of your hand<br>the creases accommodate a thousand years of history<br><br>do you see it like i do?<br>the hazy tendrils of an afternoon in bengal<br>the calmness of a moment within leaves<br>swayeth gracefully; an elephantesque grandeur<br><br>your skin feels familiar<br>your mind a testament, to<br>the unpartitioned map of india<br><br></p>
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<p><br><br>do you feel the winter creep in?<br>when mornings smell like cha<br>and the evenings are wrapped in shawls<br>when the dust hits sharp as nicotine<br><br>one of these mornings,<br>when everyone else is gone, and you are too<br>i will miss this<br>when the silence of death is the only ringing in my ears<br>i cannot fathom<br>i hope the noise starts to make sense</p>
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</content>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>untitled</title>
<author>
<name>Uzayer Masud</name>
</author>
<link href="https://uzayer.me/untitled.html"/>
<id>https://uzayer.me/untitled.html</id>
<updated>2022-05-10T15:38:00+06:00</updated>
<summary>
<![CDATA[
i exist in the smallest of spaces in the underside of a bed a corner of a balcony the plants are my friends they exist in tree-time grounded in reality i dont want to take up more space i dont know how to fight i…
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</summary>
<content type="html">
<![CDATA[
<p>i exist in the smallest of spaces<br>in the underside of a bed<br>a corner of a balcony<br><br>the plants are my friends<br>they exist in tree-time<br>grounded in reality<br><br>i dont want to take up more space<br>i dont know how to fight<br>i just want to go home<br><br>sitting on a chair feels too foreign<br>too grown up, fast paced<br>everyone is scary<br><br>i'd rather sit on the floor<br>see the world through the gaps in leaves<br>watch the sky grow bigger and the clouds drift apart<br><br>i unbecome unto myself<br><br>i miss the warmth<br>my soft unbroken lips<br><br>you're a child until you're not anymore<br>the lines feel hazy<br>i dont know where it starts or ends<br><br>the facial hair feels alien<br>the heaviness kicked in<br>lethargic to the core<br>how is it on me in the first place<br><br>i am tired of fighting<br>of struggling to live<br>i simply wish to exist<br><br>to love in simple ways<br>this softness will be the death of me</p>
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</content>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>creases</title>
<author>
<name>Uzayer Masud</name>
</author>
<link href="https://uzayer.me/creases.html"/>
<id>https://uzayer.me/creases.html</id>
<updated>2021-11-29T15:39:00+06:00</updated>
<summary>
<![CDATA[
you speak in a language that's yours, with words that roll off your tongue, so you don't spend a lifetime translating your soul when you don't think twice about how you say it to give way to the people who came before you two thousand…
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</summary>
<content type="html">
<![CDATA[
<p>you speak in a language that's yours,<br>with words that roll off your tongue,<br>so you don't spend a<br>lifetime translating your soul<br><br>when you don't think twice<br>about how you say it<br>to give way to the people<br>who came before you<br><br>two thousand years of history<br>in the words of your mouth<br>and the hair on your arms<br>you feel human, humane<br>from the nape of your neck<br>to the curves on your face<br><br>this body is my last refuge</p>
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</content>
</entry>
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