Each excavation into a lost object revealed a hidden truth—a genuine regret. But it also threw into relief how lucky I have been, to have accumulated these regrets, and survived them.
I see that my own fears, like a misdirecting valve in the heart, can interfere with tenderness.
I wasn’t a cheater. A cheater was something more solid. I accepted the preferred reality as truth. Then, I forgot about it. I mean, genuinely forgot.
Like Kafka’s cockroaches, the Styrofoam head lives forever. Only we disintegrate to dust.
I wonder about the limp in my head, how long it’s been visible.
Paris changes, poet Charles Baudelaire wrote, faster than the human heart, and as far as my neighborhood is concerned, he was right. We’d hardly settled into our new digs before people starting tearing things up.
A painting supposedly produced before 1945 that contains traces of strontium-90 and caesium-137 is most likely a forgery: these isotopes do not occur naturally and are produced in nuclear explosions, […]
“We should always have a goal of maintaining harmony.”
At this point, I was pretending to do coke, dramatically rendered little bumps, because parts of me ached and swole and it wasn’t as easy to take in anymore. All my cavities were fighting me. I was so stupid at this time.
When I was her age, I didn’t believe I belonged in the world. I didn’t believe I deserved anything good. If I could time travel to meet that teenaged version of myself I would tell him: Life is shitty right now. You have to live through it anyway. See you in a while.