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.
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.
Seeing forever didn’t quell my agitation. It was hard not to think about flames and smoke, to imagine the feeling of being hopelessly far from the street below, and then to feel all the dimensions of the room you’re in give way at once, and for what—to hold down a job, to look out over the Hudson? It wasn’t a good death. I watched the planes banking northeast out of Newark, or crossing midtown on their way into LaGuardia, as if my vigilance would do a damn thing for me or for anyone.