The Unknown Errors of Our Lives

Some things can't be spoken. The body alone knows them. It holds them patiently, in its silent, intelligent cells, until you are ready to see.

All of us groping in caverns, our fingertips raw against stone, searching for that slight crack, the edge of a door opening into love.

We are the keepers of the heart's dusty corners.

There’s always a connection, a reason because of which people enter your orbit, bristling with dark energy like a meteor intent on collision.

Leela's happiest childhood memories were of aloneness: reading in her room with the door closed, playing chess on the computer, embarking on long bike rides through the city, going to the movies by herself. You saw more that way, she explained to her parents. You didn't miss crucial bits of dialogue because your companion was busy making inane remarks. Her parents, themselves solitary individuals, didn't object. People– except for a selected handful– were noisy and messy. They knew that.

Now that she no longer cares whether tears blotch her letter, she feels no need to weep.