“We all prize a resolution, a gratifying ending, completeness and unity, but we are surrounded by incompleteness.”
“…then the undertow yanked him and he sank heavily in a viscous miasma, the pressure so imposing, he wondered why no one else could see the substance of his misery.”
“There is no ending, I’ve tried to invent one but it was a lie and I don’t want to be a liar. The story will end where it began, in the middle. A triangle or a circle, searching for a treasure buried in the woods, on the street, in books on empty trains. Craving an amulet, a jewel, a reason, a purpose, a truth. I can almost see it on the periphery, just where they said it would be glistening at me from the far edges of every angle I search.”
To hold your own knowledge to be suspect: Someone heavily introspective, tortured by the awareness of his own ignorance. She lacks the courage of the idiot, yet has the rare guts to say, “I don’t know.”
Silence is the ocean of the unsaid, the unspeakable, the repressed, the erased, the unheard. It surrounds the scattered islands made up of those allowed to speak and what can be said and who listens.
Kristen Buckley 