We’re all fed such false messages about success in life, made to believe it’s the point of arrival. So most of us spend our whole lives waiting to arrive. We expect that once we get there, the long story of the life we just lived will be infused with meaning. But while we’re waiting our voices dry up. They forget how to ask, they forget how to listen, they forget how to tell.
Words are terrible. They are boxes and they are not paintbrushes, they are not colors, they are not anything I can use to make anyone feel. I am limited.
Artists can make completely new colors and shapes and designs, and make everything just a little bit different or a little bit strange. Writers are confined to letters and sentences. There are only so many ways to rearrange twenty-six letters. You can put that in a formula. You can make writing a science or a math.
My words don’t connect and make sentences or thoughts. Maybe it’s the weather. The rain. The rain always leads to trouble
She was sitting up now. My arm was around her and she was leaning back against me, and we were quite calm. She was looking into my eyes with that way she had of looking that made you wonder whether she really saw out of her own eyes. They would look on and on after every one else’s eyes in the world would have stopped looking. She looked as though there were nothing on earth she would not look at like that, and really she was afraid of so many things.
I like to see people reunited, I like to see people run to each other, I like the kissing and the crying, I like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can’t tell fast enough, the ears that aren’t big enough, the eyes that can’t take in all of the change, I like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone.