h e x e s

My life, he will think, my life. But he won't be able to think beyond this, and he will keep repeating the words to himself—part chant, part curse, part reassurance—as he slips into that other world that he visits when he is in such pain, that world he knows is never far from his own but that he can never remember after: My life.

Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life


I'm not giving up; I'm getting up.


INTP—there'd been some discussion about personalities—what fits, doesn't fit, and so forth and so on; so this is me in so many words: she does not like to be led out of the dark like a dog; she wants to be her own fire, her own star; she wants to be the brightest constellation in her own sky.

I would like to think she prefers me; because like me, she says so much by speaking nothing. I know which refusals are final, and which are only by play. I know which gesture goes with which object, which feeling. I would like to believe this power will last forever—except I already know will not for any mother. One day, we will find each other entirely strange to each other. I wonder if I can avoid disappointment if I steel myself early enough, fast enough; but something tells me that it will not be something I can manage, categorize, even if I had all the time before time and all the time after to prepare.