Why Does What Was Beautiful Shatter In

Or Is There No Such Thing As 'too Late'? Is There Only 'late' And Is 'late' Always Better Than 'never'? I Don't Know.

I Didn't Like The Way I Looked, The Way I Dressed And Moved, What I Achieved And What I Felt I Was Worth. But There Was So Much Energy In Me, Such Belief That One Day I'd Be Handsome And Clever And Superior And Admired, Such Anticipation When I Met New People And New Situations. Is That What Makes Me Sad? The Eagerness And Belief That Filled Me Then And Exacted A Pledge From Life That Life Could Never Fulfill? Sometimes I See The Same Eagerness And Belief In The Faces Of Children And Teenagers And The Sight Brings Back The Same Sadness I Feel In Remembering Myself.

It Was More Dangerous Not To Go; I Was Running The Risk Of Becoming Trapped In My Own Fantasies. So I Was Doing The Right Thing By Going. She Would Behave Normally, I Would Behave Normally, And Everything Would Be Normal Again.

When An Airplane's Engines Fail, It Is Not The End Of The Flight.

The Tectonic Layers Of Our Lives Rest So Tightly One On Top Of The Other That We Always Come Up Against Earlier Events In Later Ones, Not As Matter That Has Been Fully Formed And Pushed Aside, But Absolutely Present And Alive. I Understand This. Nonetheless, I Sometimes Find It Hard To Bear.