"We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep- it's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.
Heaven only knows why we love it so."
from the novel, 'The Hours' by Michael Cunningham.
i talked about it here and the movie adaptation, here. do read it if you have time.
yesterday was a holiday and i spent all of it reading, writing and dreaming. after so many months, a day happened when nothing mattered but loads of solitude and the book in my hand. all through the day i did nothing but read, wrote an unfinished piece of prose, one story that is waiting to be formed and one poem that refuses to come to an end; and god i was so contented after all of it, and heaven only knows why i love it so.
