I remember once when we were moving, driving across country, and it was raining so hard, the windshield wipers going fast and squeaking, and then: nothing.  It stopped.  I looked out the window ahead of me and it was clear.  I looked out the back and there was the rain, still going.  Nobody said anything, but there it was, a near miracle, a rain line, a way of seeing just where something starts, when usually you are just in the middle of it before you notice it.  That's how it feels to me now, to not want to be like (that) anymore.  I see the line.

...in my head, a person who was out walking and walking in the dark comes to a little house with a light on.  Waits at the door for a moment, and then goes in finds such a welcome that she stays.

It feels like now we are so much older, and our lives are diverging like those geometry proofs where the two lines never touch, they just keep growing farther apart... This is why I'm crying, the distance from what you feel to what you say, how it will always be like that.

Outside, the rain sometimes comes down so hard, we have to talk louder, and it feels like a miracle that the roof holds.  It makes for a coziness and a gratefulness, too, that you have the choice to not be out in it.  You can sit at the table and look out the window and not have to feel what you see.

It feels like some part of me that was curled down and waiting in the dark has risen, and now stands stretching and strong in the sunshine.  I knew it.

Sometimes I try to remember things my mother told me about the awful way he was raised.  But why does he have to keep on going?  Why would you take something bad out of your mouth and hand it to another, saying, Here, eat this?

It's so hard to think that these fields exist when, day after day, you walk down a sidewalk past house after house after house.  But go far enough out and you see how it was before everything started.  Which I believe is true of all things.

It seems like people are all the time making themselves themselves, but they don't really know it.  You can only have true vision when you look behind.  A person can slide so fast into being something they never really intended.  I wonder if you can truly resurrect your own self.

My inside self and my outside self used to match.  A compass needle pointed true north.  Now the needle spins around and around indicating the sad direction of nowhere.