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What a strange vortex the years suddenly seemed. The jump from ten to twenty-five was a lifetime. The leap from twenty-five to forty was but a long weekend.
“Just because it doesn’t make sense to you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t make sense,” she whispered, and he couldn’t argue with that.
“Must we try everything to know something is wonderful?” she asked softly. “I don’t think so.”
“The truth is, the harder we are, the easier we shatter. It takes some softness to absorb life’s blows.”
“It makes me tired. Nothing lasts. Not clothes. Not people. Not buildings.”
“The very best things are old,” she said. “And we let nothing grow old here.”
“Of course things of value take extra care. That’s what gives them their value . . . we care about them. Starting fresh sounds like an excuse to not care.”
“Humans are complex creatures. We want to belong, but we can’t stand to be the same. How in the world do you force equity on humankind, when we try at every turn to differentiate ourselves from each other?
He who controls the narrative wins the game.
Problems didn’t get solved, they just got covered up, repackaged, or shoved to the side.
