It Is Hard For Me To Imagine

We Make Our Own Truths And Lies....truths Are Often Lies And Lies Truths.

It Is Hard For Me To Imagine That I Felt Good About Behaving Like That. I Also Remember That The Smallest Gesture Of Affection Would Bring A Lump To My Throat, Whether It Was Directed At Me Or At Someone Else. Sometimes All It Took Was A Scene In A Movie. This Juxtaposition Of Callousness And Extreme Sensitivity Seemed Suspicious Even To Me.

So I Was Still Guilty. And If I Was Not Guilty Because One Cannot Be Guilty Of Betraying A Criminal, Then I Was Guilty Of Having Loved A Criminal.

Sometimes The Memory Of Happiness Cannot Stay True Because It Ended Unhappily.

...i Had To Point At Hanna. But The Finger I Pointed At Her Turned Back To Me. I Had Loved Her. I Tried To Tell Myself That I Had Known Nothing Of What She Had Done When I Chose Her. I Tried To Talk Myself Into The State Of Innocence In Which Children Love Their Parents. But Love Of Our Parents Is The Only Love For Which We Are Not Responsible. ...and Perhaps We Are Responsible Even For The Love We Feel For Our Parents.