August 18, 2011

What broke you?

 

Silly question. We all chip and char and curl slowly under the heat of the world’s glare. The world glares, you know. On us, from birth, like small potatoes with toes and when we reach out with small hands it glares disapproval like a sun that hates us. Or at least dislikes our fingers, prodding at the things that have made it what it is. We can’t reach the sun. We aren’t supposed to. Humans can’t fly.

What broke you?

The world is too big a thing. It is not, I think, the world that breaks you. It is your father, as he closes his eyes against your face and pretends you are not there. Cat in the hallway, clock that is always wrong, the job that slowly grinds you into pieces as you disappear, little by little, into the person you have had to become. Or it is your lover and his silence. Or all the emptiness of almost-lovers or nevers, of fears that take you and strip you of all your wisdom and your sanity and your cheerfulness and your colour. Or it is your friend, who is not your friend anymore, somehow, mysteriously, peculiarly. When did things change?

 

 

Honesty is intoxicating. For those who see it, like a drunkenness that keeps you attached.

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