Seems that I have been held in some dreaming state. I twist in the waking world, never quite awake. No kiss, no gentle word could wake me from this slumber. Until I realize that it was you who held me under.
Felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids. Shaking through my skull, through my spine, and down through my ribs.
No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone. No more crawling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden. No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love. No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love. No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world.
“I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the book we're reading doesn't wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.”
“Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living.”
“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.”
“There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me.”