The sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness. In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism: this pain of mine is individual, this nerve that winces belongs to me and to no other. But happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity.
“I felt time leaving my fingertips, slipping through like sand and lazy days. Nothing lasts. Nothing lasts. Nothing lasts.”
If you want to leave, you can. I’ll remember you, though. I remember everyone who leaves.
We long for journeys and the roadside, we long for starlight and the low tide, we long for fairytales and firesides. We are coffeehouse cynics, too righteous, too rigid to believe, disappointed romantics scraping the hearts from our sleeves.
