home for the holidays | Internet Princess 

Sharing my favorite lines (come back after you read it):

What a prison, to take such good care of a house so carefully and lovingly ruined — what a tragedy, what a loss.

The stress of a loss makes everyone feel weary and old, of course, but I always felt as though the loss of her mother aged my mom in a way that was both far less tangible and much more real: she was no longer forever young in comparison to someone else, no longer still a baby in somebody’s heart and mind.

I remind myself: sometimes an apology means I wish this wasn’t happening to you, and sometimes an apology means I’m sorry I did this to you. This time, I can’t tell exactly which one he’s trying to say.

If I move, I’ll spill out of myself onto the crosswalk. The snow-plow would collect me in the morning.

This is it, I think: the great tragedy at the centre of everything is not that the world is empty or evil or ugly, but that it’s full of immeasurably beautiful things that tend towards decay. I’m still unsure if I can accept the idea of grief as a final form of love, but I understand intimately, now, its fundamental truth: horror and pain and loss do not exist in opposition to love, but as affirmation of it. All this terror because of all this beauty. All this just to have something worthwhile to ruin.