[b]Jeffrey Eugenides
She thought a writer should work harder writing a book than she did reading it.[/b]
Wow, what if that were true here.
The seeds of death get lost in the mess that God made us.
This and that there being billions of us.
And in some of the houses, people were getting old and sick and were dying, leaving others to grieve. It was happening all the time, unnoticed, and it was the thing that really mattered. What really mattered in life, what gave it weight, was death.
He thought, hanging by a thread.
In the midst of my skeptical, cynical, often pessimistic nature exists a slender capacity to believe, if only temporarily, in a guiding, unseen power, and whenever this happens, I go with it.
Nope, not yet.
Household objects lost meaning. A bedside clock became a hunk of molded plastic, telling something called time, in a world marking it’s passage for some reason.
And then there’s what we do?
The perishable nature of love is what gives love its profound importance in our lives. If it were endless, if it were on tap, love wouldn’t hit us the way it does.
Or, for that matter, life too.