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To you who eat a lot of rice because you are lonely To you who sleep a lot because you are bored To you who cry a lot because you are sad I write this down. Chew on your feelings that are cornered Like you would chew on rice. Anyway life is something that you need to digest.
On to inner qualities: She’s powerful. Not just in doing whatever she does to make people listen to her instead of watch her, but . . . I think she heals herself.
“She’s a nice voice at the moment, nothing more. Like one of the ones that sing. Except that she just talks.”
People with good intentions kept trying to pull the needles out and give her something soft and warm to wear instead, but the needles pricked their fingers so much that they gave up. Then the girl met a bad man who drove the needles in deeper. Not with a hammer, but with his hands, for the thrill of joining his own torture to hers. Luckily, luckily the bad man managed to bleed out before he could kill her—it
He said that “they” were three women and yet “they” were one, and that one of them took his pain away so that the others could return it to him and so it went on.
“Is your blood as red as this.”
Why are you telling me all this again, you say impatiently, but a person doesn’t easily recover from the sadness of finding that it’s not always affinity that draws us together (not always, not only), that you can be called to undo the deeds of another. You make a lot of work for me—my blood runs cold to think of it all—but you see I take strength from remembering that you began with intentions that were pure.
And no matter how many times the girl offered her hand, her mother refused it. It was the usual struggle between one who loves by accepting burdens and one who loves by refusing to be one. Really the mother’s pursuit of pills wasn’t motivated by the necessity of avoiding pain, but a determination to avoid any feeling at all. That’s why the pills were better than holding the child’s hand.
Do you think that maybe we’re able to love someone best when that person doesn’t know how we feel?
Air seeped out of her and very little came back in—she breathed as though subject to strangulation and sat on her hands to suppress tentacle-like tendencies such as thrashing about, and clinging.
Rain fell through sunlight. This was what Sabine Akkerman called fox rain.
Consent is a downward motion, I think—a leap or a fall—and whether they’ll admit it or not, even the most decisive people can find themselves unable to tell whether or not their consent was freely given. That inability to discover whether you jumped or were pushed brings about a deadened gaze and a downfall all its own.
Woe to those who believe in what is written, and woe to those who don’t.
Before assuming ownership of a key you should look at it closely. Not only because you may need to identify it later but because to look at a key is to get an impression of the lock it was made for, and, by extension, the entire establishment surrounding the lock.
