The other night I was trying to remember a phrase a friend of mine used to describe a kind of mutual understanding. And I went rummaging in my old messages to find it…
"a friend of mine"
that’s a dodge; it was more than friendship.
I found the phrase and remembered why I never go rereading those letters. The ones written like poetry and rain. And the things I forget because they hurt too much to remember—
bells and children’s choirs; the way snowfall makes everything seem far and near at the same time; certain lines in books; the sound of wings when a flock of birds is startled and takes to the air…
what C.S. Lewis called sehnsucht.
and for all the things unsaid: ( )
… So do we all begin by acting & the nearer we are to what we would be, the more perfect our disguise. Finally there comes the moment when we are no longer acting; it may even catch us by surprise. We may look in amazement at our no longer borrowed plumage. The two have merged; that which we put on has joined that which was; acting has become action. The soul has accepted this livery for its own after a time of trying on and approving.
To act … to see ourselves in the part—to make a larger gesture than would be ours in life—to declaim, to pronounce, to even exaggerate, to persuade ourselves (?) or others (?) To put ourselves in heart? To do more than is necessary in order that we may accomplish ce qu’il faut.
And then Hamlet is lonely. The solitary person always acts.
But I could write a thousand pages about Hamlets.
I think… I think I’ve finally come to terms with the likelihood that I’ll never find a place in normal society. No more fighting. Find a place away from it all, and live alone—indefinitely. Maybe a place in the woods? That could be nice. Or better than the alternatives, at least.