but when someone’s gone and you’re the primary keeper of his memory—letting go would be a kind of murder, wouldn’t it? i had so much love for him, even if it was a complicated love, and where is all that love supposed to go?
all parents damage their children. it cannot be helped. youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.
whatʼs done can't be undone. how do i fit into this new world? i should have been warned, somebody should have told me. how was i to know that that sort of world wasnʼt going to go on for ever?
the more sin he sees, the more his belief in original sin is confirmed. everyone likes to have his deepest convictions confirmed : that is one of the most abiding of human satisfaction.
when you destroy somebody, you are destroying yourself meanwhile. maybe right now you are not alert, but one day you will find that the same ditch that you have dug for others has proved your own grave.
is it my relative sanity that makes my life here so painful, so desperate, so hopeless? loosen my grip on that, and perhaps life both in the asylum and out becomes much easier...
i am my heart’s undertaker. daily i go and retrieve its tattered remains, place them delicately into its little coffin, and bury it in the depths of my memory, only to have to do it all again tomorrow.