There are a lot of children in Afghanistan, but little childhood.
But maybe that’s the way of life... To understand things only after they’d passed, only once it was too late.
So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.
I hid my deepest feelings so well I forgot where I placed them.
The funniest people are the saddest ones.
The sun stopped shining for me is all. The whole story is: I am sad. I am sad all the time and the sadness is so heavy that I can’t get away from it. Not ever.
Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agised as in that hour left my lips: for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.
Pain. I seem to have an affection, a kind of sweettooth for it... I break lives to prove I can mend them back again. And although the pain is theirs, I share it, don’t I? Of course. Of course. I wouldn't have it any other way. But it is another way. I am uneasy now. Feeling a bit false. What, I wonder, what would I be without a few brilliant spots of blood to ponder? Without aching words that set, then miss, the mark?
My room is so quiet and empty it hurts.
I’m lonely. And I’m lonely in some horribly deep way and for a flash of an instant, I can see just how lonely, and how deep this feeling runs. And it scares the shit out of me to be this lonely because it seems catastrophic.
The end of things, the real end, is never a neat turn of the screw, never a door that is suddenly shut, but more like an atmospheric change, clouds that slowly gather – more a whimper than a bang.
You see I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.