For grief has always been so dear to you that you would make me writhing in pain in the brothel of your imaginations than to be playing with a bunch of balloons in the yard where I should have been."
"And may be that's why, you'd rather talk to me about this, than to write a story about me where I could live happily.
He tapped my chest. 'Happy is here.' He tapped his own chest. 'Here.'
I looked down past my chin. 'Inside?'
It was getting crowded in there. First angel. Now happy. It seemed there was more to me than cabbage and turnips.
I don't like the darkness but I want to live in it, I don't want to have pains but I always have it, I want to live in good way, happy and very normal life but I just can't. Because it's not that thing which some one gave me and I didn't took from anybody or anything that's just my destiny.
People, he thought, were as hungry for a sight of joy as he had always been--for a moment's relief from that gray load of suffering which seemed so inexplicable and unnecessary. He had never been able to understand why men should be unhappy.
I had a dream about you. I smiled and you waved, and it’s unfortunate that neither one of these gestures was directed at each other. The person I was smiling at was the same person you were waving to, and he was able to catch the expression and the gesture simultaneously because he was holding a large fishing net. Later we ate dinner, and it tasted like a happy hello smothered in tartar sauce.
Ah, yes. That. The sin of being happy or excited. According to my father, we must guard carefully against such things. According to my father, these emotions are the equivalent of dancing on out fifth-floor window ledge. Clearly inviting a nasty fall.