It was then I got the idea. It kept on coming back, this feeling that she was lucky to be done with it all, no more worries, no more hiding, no more things you want to be and won't ever be. But finished, the lot.
It is all pain, and it buys nothing. Gives birth to nothing.
You don't know what being alone is.
You write what you want to hear .
Men are a joke. We're so weak physically, so helpless with things. Still, even today. But we're stronger than they are. We can stand their cruelty. They can't stand ours.
What you love is your own love. It's not love, it's selfishness. It's not me you think of, but what you feel about me.
The only thing I like abou thim is the feeling that there is something there that could be used for good if it could be got at.
So much of you is given to ordinary people, suppressed, in ordinary life.
But God can't hear...he can't care about the individuals. He's planned it so some individuals are happy, some sad, some lucky, some not. Who is sad, who is not, he doesn't know, and he doesn't care. So he doesn't exist, really.
As if that solved everything, as if to hate something means it can't have affected you.
I'm not able to put life in compartments yet. That's all.
You don't tell diseases their names.
What she never understood was that with me it was having. Having her was enough. Nothing needed doing. I just wanted to have her, and safe at last.
I just don't know. What you do blurs over what you did before.
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