I could write a song a hundred miles long, that's where you belong and you belong with me.
-Coldplay
Some things just belong on pages, can only breathe in between sheets of wrinkling paper. Mr. Darcy, first glances, the American Dream, do they really exist? If there were even half so much magnificence in this dimension, the world's seams would burst as dramatically as the evangelicals predict. So men try to fit them neatly on lines and lines instead. People, commitments, hurt, all neatly compartmentalized into rows of 26 symbols, that's where these things all belong. And they can neither leap out of the pages nor can they bother you again once you transfer them to these white spaces. Right? Write?
**
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment