[b]Jeanette Winterson
There are only three possible endings — aren’t there? — to any story: revenge, tragedy or forgiveness. That’s it. All stories end like that.[/b]
Either that or in impeachment.
I went outside, tripping over slabs of sunshine the size of towns. The sun was like a crowd of people, it was a party, it was music. The sun was blaring through the walls of houses and beating down the steps. The sun was drumming time into the stone. The sun was rhythming the day.
And that’s just our sun.
…when the dying sun bled the blue sky orange.
Still, we’ll all be long dead and gone by then. Unless of course there’s a miracle.
I knew clearly that I could not rebuild my life or put it back together in any way. I had no idea what might lie on the other side of this place. I only knew that the before-world was gone forever.
Not only that but it still is.
I realize that the future, though invisible, has weight. We are in the gravitational pull of past and future. It takes huge energy – speed of light power – to break the gravitational pull. How many of us ever get free of our orbit? We tease ourselves with fancy notions of free will and self-help courses that direct our lives. We believe we can be our own miracles, and just a lottery win or Mr. Right will make the world new.
Let’s stuff dasein in there somewhere.
Don’t mix your heart with your liver.
Actually, that has never even crossed my mind. Or not until now.