a life, which life, this one. endlessly. they just don’t get it. like broken windows that whistle for days between hurricanes and thunderstorms. not one and the same. different. the fear has nothing to do with children. there’s is nothing terrifying about a children. no. everything about a child or raising children or loving your children is terrifying and wonderful and painful and tremendous but not fear striking. not terror. this is what he does not understand: it’s real. it’s the realest thing i have ever known. or will know. i know exactly how it will be. one day there, then not. that’s what we’d all like to be believe. in our sleep, in a pseudo womb and we’re gone. but all that is missing the point. the error lies in the time between: the growing old, the hair loss, the decay, the wearing down, the wearing out, the beaten leather and loss of youth. the point of no return.
but it’s stupid: the point of no return is everyday, every hour, every minute, every second: you plow on relentlessly, driven and without respite or cause. you just go because there is no stopping.
“there was a fly in your coffee and i was terrified of waking you
-but you stopped.”
lucky fucking bastard.