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“But I’m not a book.” “Of course you are. And, as such, don’t plant flags anywhere. Ever. Don’t commit to anything. Just exist. Just like that maze inside of you, the future of this country is all about patriotic, unity-inducing language. Post-Racial. Trans–Jim Crow. Epi-Traumatic. Alt-Reparational. Omni-Restitutional. Jingoistic Body-Positive. Sociocultural-Transcendental. Indigenous-Ripostic. Treaty of Fort Laramie–Perpendicular. Meta-Exculpatory. Pan-Political. Uber-Intermutual. MLK-Adjacent. Demi-Arcadian Bucolic. That is the vernacular of the inclusive, hyphenated, beau-American destiny
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“Write about love. Love and Disney endings. Not suffering. Not oppression. Not fear. Not the slights of the past—imagined or documented. Not disappointment. Not death. Never death. Only love. Tell a love story. Always tell a love story. Love is a form of absolution—if not expressed, then implied.” … Like I said: this is a love story.
The main problem I’ve found with dating is that, at some point in the process, you have to include other people. You have to actually interact with another human being. And when it comes to people … well … I’ve never really been a fan.
The whole world of my life spins under a radiant marquee of fear. Day in and day out it kills me, over and over and over again. Kills me dead, just to restart it all tomorrow. And all I can do about it is tell people that I’m fine.
Yes, there are better things in the world to be worried about. Yes, there are tragedies, and shootings, and rapes, and violence, and starvation, and human trafficking, and all those other things and I have found the way to ignore them is simply by thinking about myself.
There’s one more thing: the silence. The long void of two people dangling in the space between the life that might have been and the life one of them condemned them both to.
