Monday, March 14, 2011

a wind in the door

we realized that the version of the world they had rendered for us was not the world they really believed in, and that for all their caretaking and bitching about crabgrass, they didn't give a damn about lawns.
the virgin suicides

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.
foer




what was it we expected and hoped from ourselves? that we were boundless, or quite different than we are? one could have the hope that he could become more real by reducing expectations, shrink to a hard, reliable core and thus be immune to the pain of disappointment. but how would it be to lead a life where there were only banal expectations like "the bus is coming?"




we leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. and there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there. we go to ourselves, travel to ourselves, when the monotonous beat of the wheels brings us to a place where we have covered a stretch of our life.
mercier

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