Bokelskere.no

I have always dealt with pain alone. I will deal with it alone now.

If there was a God, I would spit in his face for subjecting me to this. If there was a Devil, I would sell him my soul to make it end.

Ingen vil bli sett på når dei græt, alt det vonde i brystkassa forvandlar ansiktet til noko ugjenkjenneleg.

Eg brukte fleire timar i butikken, for å finne heilt enkle ting som syltetøy og lettmjølk, eg mangle eit språk, eg kunne sjå at blomkål var blomkål, men ikkje uttale det. Så eg gjekk heim og la alle varene mine utover bordet, fann fram ordbok og lærte meg alt utanat, flytta inn i byen ord for ord.

Jeg smiler flere meter over sykkelen, for jeg er atten nå og kan kjenne igjen en løgn.

Sofie tar hånden min og vi danser til vi ikke kjenner oss tunge og mette lenger, jeg tror vi tenker på det samme da, i hvert fall føles det sånn, jeg ser det på måten vi smiler bekreftende til hverandre på, at vi tenker på alt vi har i vente. Vi vet ikke hva det er, men etter all rødvinen og dansingen tror vi det blir bra.

Jeg har begynt å trives alene, jeg står opp tidlig og lager havregrøt og drikker te, gjør i stand sykkelen før jeg drar ut, og jeg bruker lang tid, aldri har jeg følt meg like oppmerksom, jeg hører på gresshoppene i veikanten, de spiller hver morgen, på gressinstrumengene sine, små knappenåler, jeg sykler i varme og regn og du bare venter, i et hus i Roma, for meg er du blitt et hus, et stort hus, et stort lioner, det er så mye du koster, det er så mye det føles, det er så mye jeg ofrer, hver gang.

Lydene er så kjente, og rommet så lite at hele meg fylles av ingenting, og den følelsen du har av at alle andre opplever noe utenom deg, at alle andre har begynt livene sine på ordentlig, går på de festene du bare ser på film, kysser de gutta du ikke tør å si hei til i skolegården, de går og legger seg med et smil om munnen, mens du ligger våken og skriver i daboka di om alt som ikke skjer.

Det er fremdeles sommer, men den lever ikke lenger, den har stoppet opp uten å visne, og høsten er ikke klar til å komme.

Kan hun tegne? spurte Sophia dystert.
Nei, svarte farmoren, antagelig ikke. Hun hører nok til dem som lager én eneste god ting og siden aldri mer.

Håret hennes tåler ikke saltvann, forklarte Sophia trist. Det ser fælt ut. Og det var håret jeg likte.

Because you simply cannot draw these things out for ever. At some point, you just pull off the Band-Aid and it hurts, but then it’s over and you’re relieved.

It was kind of a beautiful day, finally real summer in Indianapolis, warm and humid - the kind of weather that reminds you after a long winter that while the world wasn't built for humans, we were built for the world.

Isaac started talking about true love. I couldn't tell them what I was thinking because it seemed cheesy to me, but I was thinking about the universe wanting to be noticed, and how I had to notice it as best I could. I felt that I owed a debt to the universe that only my attention could repay, and also that I owed a debt to everyone who didn to be a person anymore and everyone who hadn't gotten to be a person yet.

"But I believe in true love, you know? I don't believe that everybody gets to keep their eyes or not get sick or whatever, but everybody should have true love, and it should last at least as long as your life does."

Just before the Miracle, when I was in the ICU and it looket like I was going to die and Mom was telling me it was okay to let go, and I was trying to let go but my lungs kept searching for air, Mom sobbed something into dad's chest that I wish i hadn't heard, and that I hope she never finds out that I did hear. She shaid, "I won't be a mom anymore." It gutted me pretty badly.
I couldn't stop thinking about that during the whole Cancer Team Meeting. I couldn't get it out of my head, how she sounded when she said that, like she would never be okay again, which probably she wouldn't.

My favorite book, by a wide margin, was An Imperial Affliction, but I didn't like to tell people about it. Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book. And then there are books like An Imperial Affliction, which you can't tell people about, books so special and rare are yours that advertising your affection feels like a betrayal.

"How are you feeling?" she whispers.
"Not good."
She nods. Sarah know what this means. It means she'll see me on the couch tonight, tossing and turning and sweating as Mom brings me warm milk. It means she'll see me watching TV, but not really watching, just staring and not laughing, as I don't do my homework. It means she'll see me sinking and failing. She reacts well to this. She does more schoolwork and has more fun. She doesn't want to end up like me. At least I'm giving someone an example not to follow.

"I can't eat any more either," I say. I've managed five bites. My stomach is churning and closing fast. It's all such inoffensive food; I shouldn't have any problems with it. I should be able to eat three plates of it. I'm a growing boy; I shouldn't have trouble sleeping; I should be playing sports! I should be making out with girls. I should be finding what I love about this world. I should be frickin' eating and sleeping and drinking and studying and watching TV and being normal.

'Poor slob,' she said, tickling his head, 'poor slob without a name. It's a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I haven't any right to give him one: he'll have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don't belong to each other: he's independent, and so am I. I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together. I'm not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it's like.' She smiled, and let the cat drop to the floor. 'It's like Tiffany's,' she said.