(no subject)
"CLARE: It's hard being left behind. I wait for Henry, not knowing where he is, wondering if he's okay. It's hard to be the one who stays.
I keep myself busy. Time goes faster that way.
I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks. I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that's been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intesified by absence?
Long ago, men went to sea, and women waited for them, standing on the edge of the water, scanning the horizon for the tiny ship. Now I wait for Henry. He vanishes unwillingly, without warning. I wait for him. Each moment that I wait feels like a year, an eternity. Each moment is as slow and transparent as glass. Through each moment I can see infinite moments lined up, waiting. Why has he gone where I cannot follow?"
-opening passage from The Time Travellers Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger
(currently my favourite book)
I'm back from a weekend with Jen. We left her house at 7 this morning and I walked in my door at 8 tonight. Everything in the middle feels like a bit of a blur. Hundreds of miles of road and trees and sky taken in through dirty bus windows in between dreams and daydreams.
The whole weekend feels like a bit of a blur, actually. Being there for such a short time, it hardly feels like I was gone, only I feel more lonely now. When I turn off the light tonight she won't be there to kiss in the dark. When I wake up she won't be there to roll over and wrap my arms around. It's so easy to get used to these things. It hardly feels like I was there, but I already got used to being with her.
I keep myself busy. Time goes faster that way.
I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks. I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that's been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intesified by absence?
Long ago, men went to sea, and women waited for them, standing on the edge of the water, scanning the horizon for the tiny ship. Now I wait for Henry. He vanishes unwillingly, without warning. I wait for him. Each moment that I wait feels like a year, an eternity. Each moment is as slow and transparent as glass. Through each moment I can see infinite moments lined up, waiting. Why has he gone where I cannot follow?"
-opening passage from The Time Travellers Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger
(currently my favourite book)
I'm back from a weekend with Jen. We left her house at 7 this morning and I walked in my door at 8 tonight. Everything in the middle feels like a bit of a blur. Hundreds of miles of road and trees and sky taken in through dirty bus windows in between dreams and daydreams.
The whole weekend feels like a bit of a blur, actually. Being there for such a short time, it hardly feels like I was gone, only I feel more lonely now. When I turn off the light tonight she won't be there to kiss in the dark. When I wake up she won't be there to roll over and wrap my arms around. It's so easy to get used to these things. It hardly feels like I was there, but I already got used to being with her.