Memory, I Realize, Can Be An Unreliable

It Never Occurred To Me That Our Lives, Until Then So Closely Interwoven, Could Unravel And Separate Over A Thing Like That. But The Fact Was, I Suppose, There Were Powerful Tides Tugging Us Apart By Then, And It Only Needed Something Like That To Finish The Task. If We'd Understood That Back Then-who Knows?-maybe We'd Have Kept A Tighter Hold Of One Another.

I Can't Even Say I Made My Own Mistakes. Really - One Has To Ask Oneself - What Dignity Is There In That?

All I Know Is That I've Wasted All These Years Looking For Something, A Sort Of Trophy I'd Get Only If I Really, Really Did Enough To Deserve It. But I Don't Want It Anymore, I Want Something Else Now, Something Warm And Sheltering, Something I Can Turn To, Regardless Of What I Do, Regardless Of Who I Become. Something That Will Just Be There, Always, Like Tomorrow's Sky. That's What I Want Now, And I Think It's What You Should Want Too. But It Will Be Too Late Soon. We'll Become Too Set To Change. If We Don't Take Our Chance Now, Another May Never Come For Either Of Us.

I Like The Fact That By Mimicking The Way Memory Works, A Writer Can Actually Write In A Fluid Way - One Solid Scene Doesn't Have To Fall On Another Solid Scene, You Can Just Have A Fragment That Then Dovetails Into Another One That Took Place 30 Years Apart From It.

Because Maybe, In A Way, We Didn't Leave It Behind Nearly As Much As We Might Once Have Thought. Because Somewhere Underneath, A Part Of Us Stayed Like That: Fearful Of The World Around Us, And No Matter How Much We Despised Ourselves For It--unable Quite To Let Each Other Go.