Bokelskere.no

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.

He was unhappy, and for the first time in his life, that unhappiness did not seem entirely necessary. Sometimes he yearned to trust this impulse, to leap out of his life and into the vast, incalculable void of the world.

Grief can feel diffuse and dense all at once, like a flock of birds in the sky.