Russian Doll
Familiarity ›
Everywhere I go, there is a sense of indefinite urgency to besiege the most despised feeling of all—loneliness. If it wasn’t for societal boundaries, people would pounce on one another in misguided attempts to reach a hand—any kind of hand—just to rid the ineffable void. It’s a funny feeling,…
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I became aware that our love was doomed; love had turned into a love affair with a beginning and an end. I could name the very moment when it had begun, and one day I knew I should be able to name the final hour. When she left the house I couldn’t settle to work. I would reconstruct what we had said to each other; I would fan myself into anger or remorse. And all the time I knew I was forcing the pace. I was pushing, pushing the only thing I loved out of my life. As long as I could make believe that love lasted I was happy; I think I was even good to live with, and so love did last. But if love had to die, I wanted it to die quickly. It was as though our love were a small creature caught in a trap and bleeding to death; I had to shut my eyes and wring its neck.
The End of the Affair by Graham Greene (via thechocolatebrigade)
(via electrifyy)
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Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings.
