What you did wasn’t so bad. You stood in a small room, waiting for the sun. At least you told yourself that. I know it was small, but there was something, a kind of pulped lemon, at the low edge of the sky. No, you’re right, it was terrible. Terrible to live without love in small rooms with vinyl blinds listening to music secretly, the secret music of one’s head which can’t be shared. A dream is the only way to breathe. But you must find a more useful way to live. I suppose you’re right this was a failure: to stand there so still, waiting for — what? When I think about this life, the life you led, I think of England, of secret gardens that never open, and novels sliding off the bed at night where the small handkerchief of darkness settles over one’s face. Meghan O’Rourke
Comments
Post a Comment