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My tears are in the darkest shade of melancholy, and so my face is painted.
I don't like to cry in front of people. It's humiliating. It's like admitting that you're only human; that you're weak, fallible, and prone to errors in judgment. It's irksome.But the polite passerby needs no other response than what my tear ducts have to offer. I am not alright. But what choice do I have? I am only human. And I am weak, fallible, and prone to errors in judgment.
I want to write, but I doubt the possibility of capturing the essence of the event without completely humiliating everyone involved in the process of my story telling. So today Jeanette is my friend. Today I'll let Jean do the talking. I'll be shameless enough to claim her words as my own, because today I don't have to live vicariously through her works. Today I am Jeanette Winterson.
“What kills love? Only this: Neglect. Not to see you when you stand before me. Not to think of you in the little things. Not to make the road wide for you, the table spread for you. To choose you out of habit not desire, to pass the flower seller without a thought. To leave the dishes unwashed, the bed unmade, to ignore you in the mornings, make use of you at night. To crave another while pecking your cheek. To say your name without hearing it, to assume it is mine to call.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
“There are many forms of love and affection, some people can spend their whole lives together without knowing each other's names. Naming is a difficult and time-consuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power. But on the wild nights who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Oranges are Not the Only Fruit
“Love is the one thing stronger than desire and the only proper reason to resist temptation.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
“She looked at me like I was crazy. Most of my lovers do, and that's partly why they love me, and partly why they leave”
― Jeanette Winterson
“I didn't know what hate felt like, not the hate that comes after love. It's huge and desperate and it longs to be proved wrong. And every day it's proved right it grows a little more monstrous. If the love was passion, the hate will be obsession. A need to see the once-loved weak and cowed beneath pity. Disgust is close and dignity is far away. The hate is not only for the once loved, it's for yourself too; how could you ever have loved this?”
― Jeanette Winterson, The Passion
“He: What’s the matter with you?
Me: Nothing.
Nothing was slowly clotting my arteries. Nothing slowly numbing my soul. Caught by nothing, saying nothing, nothingness becomes me. When I am nothing they will say surprised in the way that they are forever surprised, "but there was nothing the matter with her.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Gut Symmetries
Nothing, nothing's the matter with me.
Labels: KEEP
