viernes, 14 de abril de 2017

A wave rising in the ocean

Grief is a most peculiar thing; we´re so helpless in the face of it. It´s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room growns cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we womder what has become of it. 


What if I came to the end of my life and realize that I´d spent every day watching for a man who would never come tome? What an unbereable sorrow it would be, to realize I´d never really tasted the things I´d eaten, or seen the places I´d been, because I´d thougth of nothing but the Chairman even while my life was drifting away from me. And yet if I drew my thoughts back from him, what life would I have? I would be like a dancer who had practiced since childhood for a performance she would never give. 


Since the day I´d left Yoroido, I´d done nothing but worry that every turn of life´s wheel would bring yet another obstacle into my path; and of course, it was the worriying adn the struggle tha had always made life so vividly real to me. When we fight upstream against a rocky indercurrent, every foothold takes on a kind of urgency. 


But now I know that our world is no more permanent than a wave rising on the ocean. Whatever our struggles and triumphs, however we may suffer them, all too soon they bleed into a wash, just like watery ink on paper. 

Memoirs of a Geisha. Arthur Golden

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