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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