Be careful, you are not in Wonderland. I’ve heard the strange madness long growing in your soul. But you are fortunate in your ignorance, in your isolation. You who have suffered, find where love hides. Give, share, lose—lest we die, unbloomed.
It’s weird to grow up in a family where you know you’re loved but you don’t feel loved. And then later in adulthood you understand how almost impossible it seems to cross that distance and let yourself experience closeness, how otherworldly love feels now and how love feels unbearable at times. You flinch when someone tries to wholeheartedly love you. And over and over you see so clearly how you cannot be loved unless it's from afar and love is mixed with that familiar sensation of distance and coldness.
2023 12 05 : i am scared- what even- i am afraid again that all of it will evaporate from me, it'll all pass into nothing the moment i enter the exam hall because how else am i supposed to feel. scoring a 79 in semester iv was a coincidence or perhaps a very deeply uncompromising mistake on the part of the scrutinizer but that entails that i must keep consistently above 75 in the next 4 honours papers : Semester V : Poetry II , Fiction II and Semester VI : Criticism , Indian Literature. and i have no confidence, I've always been the imposter who pretends or perhaps people have elevated me to the pount where i too have become delusional at being the"better person" not primarily for myself but incentivised by the expectations of others or perhaps the need to impress the other. i am anxious again. but i pray it shall be well.
To update on this- I scored a large and plenty 79 on this paper. History of English Literature, Semester IV was absolute ace in that manner. But somebody else got 83 still. But I think I am proud of myself for carrying myself to 79 when the only thing I was worried about was ruining this paper entirely.
I made more notes during this finals week before honours paper than I have in my entire life. Semester IV is going to be a tragedy.
He was shut out from all family affairs. No one told him anything. The children, alone with their mother, told her all about the day's happenings, everything. Nothing had really taken place in them until it was told to their mother. But as soon as the father came in, everything stopped. He was like the scotch in the smooth, happy machinery of the home. And he was always aware of this fall of silence on his entry, the shutting off of life, the unwelcome. But now it was gone too far to alter.
They were happy in the morning—happy, very happy playing, dancing at night round the lonely lamp-post in the midst of the darkness. But they had one tight place of anxiety in their hearts, one darkness in their eyes, which showed all their lives.
Paul hated his father. As a boy he had a fervent private religion.
"Make him stop drinking," he prayed every night. "Lord, let my father die," he prayed very often. "Let him not be killed at pit," he prayed when, after tea, the father did not come home from work.
I fear that I must be something. I fear that I am something. That which only floats, that which only lies, that which only runs like a French romance, that which runs, around and into sad things, bad, yellow, uneasy things. I am so unartistically bitter. I fear I am me indeed.