the truth will _______.

today i tell my classmate m- that being in a new place is overstimulating, so much so that i cannot quiet myself enough to focus on our reading, and, "this is infuriating because didn't i come to graduate school to absorb material?" and she says yes, this is so and that i should breathe, not unkindly, only matter-of-factly.
sometimes we lie to ourselves.
i was lying. only i'm not sure what the truth is, exactly. inexactly, there's something in my head about looking for love. the word is love, but i don't know what it means, to look for love, why there's this looking, or how it relates -- the reading and the love. but, i can't read, can't even breathe, and it is connected, somehow, to love.
i remember being on a boat in china and writing in my journal that all stories are about love, even when they're not. maybe i was right.

currently i spend more time writing to myself on this screen than i do reading, which is unfortunate, which is wasteful (of time and money), but it is what i do. to feel real.