"You
have to hate to change; if you don't hate your life enough you'll
never find the will to change it."
"I think,"
I pause, the words coming slow, halting. I don't want to hurt hurt
her. I still speak. "I don't think anyone is all they could be.
We're all reflections, echoes, smudges. Fragments of what we could
be, of things never done, of things left undone." I lick my
lips. "Every choice is a grief."
... it is at once a fun and odd worry that someone would, some day, read this story and try to find autobiography in it.
OTOH, it would be damn funny to use every novel an author wrote from a first-person POV and assume it was all about the author themselves and do up a giant essay or thesis on them based on thatt.
The words you use, refections, echoes, smudges... makes it sound like the changes have already happened, that what is left is simply remnants :)
ReplyDeleteThis confuses me because this is insinuating it's both present and past. 'We are all...' (present), but then '...of things never done/left undone.' (past)
but strange an interesting as usual :)
Ah! Yeah, it was intended to feel stilted mostly because it's wrong as a statement :)
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