Sometimes people stop loving you. And that’s the kind of darkness that never gets fixed, no matter how many moons rise again, filling the sky with a weak approximation of light.
I wish that photographs were physical spaces, like tunnels; that you could crawl inside them and go back.
Normal is a word invented by boring people to make them feel better about being boring.
Funny how things can stay the same forever and then change so quickly.
I guess that’s the really nice thing about disappearing: the part where people look for you and beg you to come home.
Funny, isn’t it, how quickly the future becomes the past.
But that’s the beauty of life: time if yours to keep and to change. Just a few minutes can be sufficient to carve a new road, a new track. Just a few minutes, and the void is kept at bay. You will live forever with that new road inside of you, stretching away to a place suggested, barely, on the horizon. For the shortest time, shorter than the shortest second’s breath, you get to stand up to infinity. But eventually, and always, infinity wins.
A strange and baffling truth: that the people we’re supposed to know best can turn out to be strangers, and that near strangers can feel so much like home.
Sometimes day and night reverse. Sometimes up goes down and down goes up, and love turns into hate, and the things you counted on get washed out from under your feet, leaving you pedaling in the air.
I keep having the urge to cross my hands over my chest, to cover up my breasts, to hide. I’m suddenly aware of how pale I look in the sunshine, and how many moles I have spotting up and down my chest, and I just know he’s looking at me thinking i’m wrong or deformed. But the he breathes, ‘Beautiful’ and when his eyes meet mine I know that he really, truly means it.
That’s what everyone wanted, in the end: to be part of something bigger.
Life’s the sum total of all our small mistakes, little tragedies, bad choices. Addition on top of addition. They pile up and pile up until the cost of keeping up appearances is too high and the weight is just too much. Then: collapse.
This is how we grow: not up, but out, like trees – swelling to encompass all these stories, the promises and lies and bribes and habits.
Amazing, isn’t it? That hearts that once beat in sync could be so perfectly and forever separated. That’s the whole process of life, I think: a long, slow process of separation. It can be cured only by the reabsorption into everything, into the single heartbeat of time.
When a heart breaks, a firefly is born.
There’s a metaphor in that somewhere – like all of life is about ending up somewhere you didn’t expect, and learning to just be happy with it.
This is it: somehow, in these pictures, the mystery of the accident is contained, and the explanation for Dara’s subsequent behavior, for the silences and disappearances. Don’t ask me how. I just do. If you don’t understand that, I guess you’ve never had a sister.
Sometimes day and night reverse. Sometimes up goes down and down goes up, and love turns into hate, and the things you counted on get washed out from under your feet, leaving you pedaling in the air. Sometimes people stop loving you. And that’s the kind of darkness that never gets fixed, no matter how many moons rise again, filling the sky with a weak approximation of light.
I suppose, in some sense, wills are like maps: they are the imprint we leave, the places our affections have been entrenched; the work we have done; the money we have burrowed away; the furrows and the paths that lead back to spaces we have gone, and marked, and loved.
But those are just words, and words are just stories, and eventually, always, stories come to an end.