We’re constantly changing facts, rewriting history to make things easier, to make them fit in with our preferred version of events. We do it automatically. We invent memories. Without thinking. If we tell ourselves something happened often enough w...
I closed my eyes and abandoned myself to my grief. It felt better, somehow, to be helpless. I didn't feel ashamed.
I want him to be happy. And I want you to be happy, too. Even if you can only find that happiness without me.
What are we, if not an accumulation of our memories?
Thoughts race, as if, in a mind devoid of memory, each idea has too much space to grow and move, to collide with others in a shower of sparks before spinning off into its own distance.
There are memories I am better off without. Things better lost forever.
It's so difficult, isn't it? To see what's going on when you're in the absolute middle of something? It's only with hindsight we can see things for what they are.
I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd fought for you. I was weak and stupid.
With him everything is a test, affection is measured, that given weighed against that which has been received, and the balance, more often than not, disappointing him.
