Bokelskere.no

My dad wandered off in search of himself.

Make death proud to take us.

The people I grew up with felt glamorous watching films, listening to records, or reading books written by people who unfolded their lives, who told of the time they loved and the time they died and the time they danced at EL Moroco.

He found he was a man who repented almost everything, regrets crowding in around him like moths to a light. This was actually the main difference between twenty-one and fifty-one, he decided, the sheer volume of regret.

A life, remembered, is a series of photographs and disconnected short films.

"I was in the hotel," he said finally. "I followed your footprints in the snow". There were tears on his face.
"Okay," someone said, "but why are you crying?".
"I'd thought I was the only one", he said.

Something must linger, a half-life of marriage, some sense memory of love even if obviously not the thing itself. He thought these people must mean something to one another, even if they didn't like one another anymore.

Those previous versions of herself were so distant now that remembering them was almost like remembering other people, acquaintances, young women whom she'd known a long time ago, and she felt such compassion for them.

If you are the light, if your enimies are the darkness, then there's nothing that you cannot justify.

They spend all their lives waiting for their lives to begin.

Yes, it was beautiful. It was the most beautiful place I have ever seen. It was gorgeous and claustrophobic. I loved it and I always wanted to escape.

We travelled so far and your friendship meant everything. It was very difficult, but there were moments of beauty. Everything ends. I am not afraid.

The more you remember, the more you've lost.

First we only want to be seen, but once we're seen, that's not enough anymore. After that, we want to be remembered.

Hell is the absence of the people you long for.

I stood looking over my damaged home and tried to forget the sweetness of life on Earth.

I repent nothing. A line she remembered from the fog of the internet. I am heartless, she thinks, but she knows even through her guilt that this isn't true. She knows there are traps everywhere that can make her cry, she knows the way she dies a little every time someone asks her for change and she doesn't give it to them means that she's too soft for this world or perhaps just for this city, she feels so small here.

Because survival is insufficient.

He does not trust memory. Memory sifts. Memory lifts. Memory makes due with what is given. Memory is not about facts. Memory is an inconsistent measurement of the pain in one's life.

The past is greedy, always swallowing you up, always taking. If you don't hold it back, if you don't dam it up, it will spread and take and drown. The past is not a receding horizon. Rather, it advances one moment at a time, marching steadily forward until it has claimed everything and we become again who we were.