The Woman in the Fifth

There is much to be said for solitude.

All our stories are simultaneously unique and desperately similar, aren't they?

Once you've crossed over into that realm of nothingness, your story only really stays in the minds of those closest to you. And when they too vanish...

All lives are extraordinary. All lives are simultaneously banal and obvious.

Compartmentalize. Accept the Cartesian logic of two separate universes within one life. Accept the contradictory tug between familial responsibility and the illusion of freedom. Accept that – as Dumas said – the chains of marriage are heavy and, as such, they often need to be carried by several people. But never allow the two realms to meet – and never admit anything. Whereas you, Harry, confessed everything … didn’t you?

...there are certain tragedies from which we never recover. We may eventually adjust to the sense of loss that pervades every waking hour of the day. We may accept the desperate sadness that colors all perception. We may even learn to live with the loss. But it doesn't mean we will ever fully cauterize the wound or shut away the pain in some steel-tight box and consider it vanquished.

I wanted to get it all down on paper; a record of what happened----just in case something did happen to me---- and to try and convince myself that I was not living in a state of permanent delusion. But why should you accept this story as given? It’s just a story----my story. And like all stories, it isn’t, in the pure sense of the word, true. It’s just my version of the truth. Which means it is----and isn’t----true at all.