"...excessive living weighs down the imagination: we will not live, we will only write and talk to swell the sails." (A Literate Passion, Anais Nin).
This reminds me of the episode in Louie when Louie gets dumped and he's miserable and bugs the doctor about it. The doctor tells him that being sick over love and hurting over love is love. That's the good part.
When I read this, I felt suffocated for her. I thought, "how can someone be okay with "not living"? With being a part of life, but also consciously outside of the pulse. It seems dreadful to know there exists someone in the world that you love and are in love with, but can't have totally. You can't be with them.
This felt like purgatory. But, then there's this "we." There this "we" that's fated to be outside looking in, living far too heavy in the imaginative realm of our shared experience.
I guess we aren't ever really alone in that sense?
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