You can’t get mad at a real ending. Some of them are ugly. It’s the fake happily ever afters that should piss you off.
You do not even think of your own past as quite real; you dress it up, you gild it or blacken it, censor it, tinker with it…fictionalize it, in a word, and put it away on a shelf—your book, your romanced autobiography. We are all in the flight from the real reality.
I think you’re never the same person when you close a book as when you open one; it changes your life very subtly.
Maybe memories should be left the way they are.
We almost made it.
I almost called you “mine,”
And you almost called me “yours.”
I think we almost loved each-other.
But the only thing I was sure about is that
wasn’t good enough.
Listen to me, your body is not a temple. Temples can be destroyed and desecrated. Your body is a forest — thick canopies of maple trees and sweet scented wildflowers sprouting in the underwood. You will grow back, over and over, no matter how badly devastated you are.
[And neither of us will have ever been quite sure what that purpose was, beyond soothing pain and striving to communicate.]
Is there a better one?
Sometimes I remind myself that I almost skipped the party, that I almost went to a different college, that the whim of a minute could have changed everything and everyone. Our lives, so settled, so specific, are built on happenstance.