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Like most men, Wick could not help terror about one thing erupting as anger about something else.
Happy? Now? What a strange question. What a self-indulgent, unanswerable question.
No one had ever had a lasting peace without ignoring atrocity or history, which meant it wasn’t lasting at all.
It was getting too difficult—occupying the same space but traveling through separate universes of need, of want.
What if I had wanted to be lost? What if my earlier self had been the smartest, the wisest, to want to remove all of that from me? So I could survive. So maybe I could be happy. What if my unhappiness had always been from having remembered happiness?
There comes a moment when you witness events so epic you don’t know how to place them in the cosmos or in relation to the normal workings of a day. Worse, when these events recur, at an ever greater magnitude, in a cascade of what you have never seen before and do not know how to classify. Troubling because each time you acclimate, you move on, and, if this continues, there is a mundane grandeur to the scale that renders certain events beyond rebuke or judgment, horror or wonder, or even the grasp of history.
