“If you had known me
once you’d still know me
though in a different light and life.
This is no place you ever knew me.
But it would not surprise you
to find me here,
walking in fog, the sweep of the great ocean
eluding me, even the curve of the bay,
because as always
I fix on the land.
I am stuck to earth…these are not the roads
you knew me by.
But the woman driving, walking, watching
for life and death, is the same.”—Adrienne Rich, An Atlas of the Difficult World: Poems, 1988-1991 (via serialstranger)
I’ll sing if you like. Or else let’s go and sit in the dark in your study as we used to, and you’ll tell me about your depression… You have such suffering eyes. I’ll look into them and cry, and we’ll both feel better.
Can I be blamed for wanting a real body, to put my arms around? Without it I too am disembodied. I can listen to my own heartbeat against the bedsprings…but there’s something dead about it, something deserted.
"You don’t have to destroy me. Do you? I’m only a woman who loves you and wants to do what you want to do. I’ve been destroyed two or three times already. You wouldn’t want to destroy me again, would you?"
When I’m in turmoil, when I can’t think, when I’m exhausted and afraid and feeling very, very alone, I go for walks. It’s just one of those things I do. I walk and I walk and sooner or later something comes to me, something to make me feel less like jumping off a building.
One day he said to me - he had some English - “Why are you sad?”
“I’m not sad,” I said, and began to cry. Sympathy from strangers can be ruinous.
“You should not be sad,” he said, gazing at me with his melancholy, leathery walrus eyes. “It must be the love. But you are young and pretty, you will have time to be sad later.”