(it’s how you find your own.) the result of what you do not show, and what was not shown. you could easily make the link, but why give it away? i will tell you this, and it is not a riddle: we were walking home (“home”), from duluth up to gilford, after feasting on afghan food, and drinking all of the wine. it was a long summer night, with the sun scarcely not yet set. my fingers with the one-two-threes, the petals and the greens, painted a garden in the palm of my hand, gathering in a circle the line between A and B. until we reached the door, of course. it was all the sweet goodbyes, then. transient and true.
fittingly, today’s beautiful quote comes from a book that was lent to me; but it is no longer borrowed now, it is just ours.
“To disguise nothing, to conceal nothing, to write about those things that are closest to our pain, our happiness; to write about my sexual clumsiness, the agonies of Tantalus, the depths of my discouragement—I seem to glimpse it in my dreams—my despair. To write about the foolish agonies of anxiety, the refreshment of our strength when these are ended; to write about our painful search for self, jeopardized by a stranger in the post office, a half-seen face in a train window; to write about the continents and populations of our dreams, about love and death, good and evil, the end of the world.”
— john cheever, as quoted by geoff dyer, in otherwise known as the human condition