Graham Greene writes
But if one day you do not come after breakfast, if one day I see you in some looking-glass perhaps looking after another, if the telephone buzzes and buzzes in your empty room, I shall then, after unspeakable anguish, I shall then-- for there is no end to the folly of the human heart-- seek another, find another, you. Meanwhile, let us abolish the ticking of time's clock with one blow. Come closer.
i've been re-reading old books lately. The End of the Affair, the ESOTSM script, and most of Greene's work. i don't really know why. there is so much beauty in literature it overwhelms me sometimes ... so much beauty.
the days are swallowing me whole and chewing me out. i had a very bizarre dream last night, which largely revolved around catholic high boys. i dreamt i met stephen at Giordano because i was shopping there (really, now?) and he looked different and then he told me i looked different and that i really looked 'so adorable'. which really isn't uncharacteristic of him, but very bizarre. and i woke up wondering where he is now and what is going on and wondering why i burn bridges so fast. i don't miss him, i just feel estranged. how easily things shift - he used to be such a huge part of my life for a few months and there used to be so much drama between us but now it all seems to have vanished into the distant past. i wonder if he still displays the photoframe i made, how his aunt is doing at the canteen stall at njc, has he changed the way he dresses? the only thing tangible i have to remind me that we existed is the bracelet he gave me for my birthday.
how easily we write and rewrite our lives. maybe that's what i do - i try to write my life the way i want it and when i get unhappy i start a new page and rewrite. but i'm never content with my writing, what makes me think i'll ever be content with the story i've turned my life into?
you are the story, winterson writes. yes, i am the story. we are all stories.
i've been re-reading old books lately. The End of the Affair, the ESOTSM script, and most of Greene's work. i don't really know why. there is so much beauty in literature it overwhelms me sometimes ... so much beauty.
the days are swallowing me whole and chewing me out. i had a very bizarre dream last night, which largely revolved around catholic high boys. i dreamt i met stephen at Giordano because i was shopping there (really, now?) and he looked different and then he told me i looked different and that i really looked 'so adorable'. which really isn't uncharacteristic of him, but very bizarre. and i woke up wondering where he is now and what is going on and wondering why i burn bridges so fast. i don't miss him, i just feel estranged. how easily things shift - he used to be such a huge part of my life for a few months and there used to be so much drama between us but now it all seems to have vanished into the distant past. i wonder if he still displays the photoframe i made, how his aunt is doing at the canteen stall at njc, has he changed the way he dresses? the only thing tangible i have to remind me that we existed is the bracelet he gave me for my birthday.
how easily we write and rewrite our lives. maybe that's what i do - i try to write my life the way i want it and when i get unhappy i start a new page and rewrite. but i'm never content with my writing, what makes me think i'll ever be content with the story i've turned my life into?
you are the story, winterson writes. yes, i am the story. we are all stories.