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Alex loved books. He was the one who first introduced me to poetry. That’s another reason I can’t read anymore.
If you want something, if you take it for your own, you’ll always be taking it from someone else. That’s a rule too. And something must die so that others can live.”
That is what hatred is. It will feed you and at the same time turn you to rot.
It’s like returning somewhere you haven’t been since you were a child, and finding everything smaller and disappointing.
I didn’t realize then what a privilege that was: to be bored with your best friend; to have time to waste.
The tunnels may be long, and twisted, and dark; but you are supposed to go through them.
I wonder if this is how people always get close: They heal each other’s wounds; they repair the broken skin.
“There’s a place for everything and everyone, you know. That is the mistake they make above. They think that only certain people have a place. Only certain kinds of people belong. The rest is waste. But even waste must have a place. Otherwise it will clog and clot, and rot and fester.”
It occurs to me, then, that people themselves are full of tunnels: winding, dark spaces and caverns; impossible to know all the places inside of them. Impossible even to imagine.
We can never understand. We can only try, fumbling our way through the tunneled places, reaching for light.
