“and all the while I was caressing every wall of my head. I was wandering around my head, teary with joy, wistful even, loving the surfaces, the many rooms, the old rooms and empty rooms…
“but slowly these empty rooms are filled. filled with things so wretched and brutal that you could not have conceived of them at thirteen. and soon you find there are too many rooms, too many occupied rooms, too few empty ones. I walk through my corridors and I open the doors and now it’s so hard to find a room unoccupied or not full of screaming clouds…
“they live in these rooms. they breathe there, i hear their laughter. I try to keep them in the rooms I don’t enter, but they move, and I forget where they are, and when we’re in a room together I vibrate, I have too much within me, I cannot contain my desire–death for them and even me, I will tie my blood to theirs, a line to anchor, whatever it takes, they make me want to end my brain…
“don’t you see that as we’ve traveled, nearly every minute, they have been with me, they have been with me always? I have given you a small insignificant indication of their presence with me. when you shake my hand you shake theirs. when i place my elbows on tables to eat, to look across a table and talk with you, they eat with me, they talk through me…
“the only times they are not with me are those times when speed overwhelms, when the action of moments supersedes and crowds out, when my movements stop they come. when my eyes are fixed they come.”
throughout this novel the main characters’ thought process seems to be extremely similar to my own, strange how I often read as a form of escapism yet literature consistently carries me into a passionate form of reality. i admire this, the way words document emotion, and chaos. the way words press meaning onto existence.
Accepting This 