The Coward said — the deaths of the girls our boys just killed, They hardly affect me. I’m scared that he is right. We see tortured death and all we talk about are gas prices. The Philosopher disagrees with the Coward. Says - we all share the joy of this world. We have lost greatly. The Writer doubts himself. What words from me can bring them justice?
A particular kind of love emerges when choice is suddenly revoked. Not violently, as if someone stormed in and took your options away, but politely — through circumstance.
I am currently sitting in front of my computer, definitely too late considering that I have to wake up at 6… and it is already the a.m., with me staring at a problem set that I intuitively understand is unsolvable, much like the broader equation of my life.
I had to excuse myself to the bathroom after this one. Just sat there in the stall crying, trying to be quiet. It felt embarrassing, but also, I couldn’t stop because it felt like something inside me was finally breaking open.
The sound is unmistakable. Click-clack. Click-clack. Hard plastic striking frozen asphalt. It is the music of 5:00 AM, played out in the dark parking lots of the Dolomites. I was three years old when I first learned the rhythm of it, my small, gloved hand lost inside my father’s palm.
I’m sitting here three days later, and I still can’t get it out of my head. The movie, I mean. Wicked. I went because everyone was going and I needed a break from studying for finals and maybe because I was curious about all the hype but I wasn’t expecting… this. I wasn’t expecting to leave the theater feeling like someone had reached into my chest and rearranged everything.
There will always be that strange feeling—the fear of not belonging, the sense that everything I do is so tiny, so fragile and transient that nothing will remain.
