My life was confusing, I felt tangled as the moonahs, nothing so organised and purposeful as a coherent essay would evince. And yet, the tangle of those trees right there, the copse of moonahs I was thinking of, and writing beside, was beautiful for all its tangle. Its weird and wonderful shapes and sinuosities.
But wait. Evince—what kind of a word is that? And sinuosities, for that matter, what kind of a word is that? Wasn’t this meant to be a piece of writing that helped clarify my confusion? Are these the right words—evince, sinuosities—to include in the family of such concerns, or are they too hoity, too arch, like some exotic or even imperial thing, some colonising span, laid across the honest, the messy, the organic and eternal?
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