I Asked Her About Life, And It

I Thought That If The Right Time Gets Missed, If One Has Refused Or Been Refused Something For Too Long, It's Too Late, Even If It Is Finally Tackled With Energy And Received With Joy. Or Is There No Such Thing As "too Late"? Is There Only "late," And Is "late" Always Better Than "never"? I Don't Know.

It Is Hard For Me To Imagine That I Felt Good About Behaving Like That. I Also Remember That The Smallest Gesture Of Affection Would Bring A Lump To My Throat, Whether It Was Directed At Me Or At Someone Else. Sometimes All It Took Was A Scene In A Movie. This Juxtaposition Of Callousness And Extreme Sensitivity Seemed Suspicious Even To Me.

It Was More Dangerous Not To Go; I Was Running The Risk Of Becoming Trapped In My Own Fantasies. So I Was Doing The Right Thing By Going. She Would Behave Normally, I Would Behave Normally, And Everything Would Be Normal Again.

The Tectonic Layers Of Our Lives Rest So Tightly One On Top Of The Other That We Always Come Up Against Earlier Events In Later Ones, Not As Matter That Has Been Fully Formed And Pushed Aside, But Absolutely Present And Alive. I Understand This. Nonetheless, I Sometimes Find It Hard To Bear.

Desires, Memories, Fears, Passions Form Labyrinths In Which We Lose And Find And Then Lose Ourselves Again.