Photography is all about secrets... The secrets we all have and will never tell.
You can't spend the rest of your life tiptoeing around to try and avert disaster. It won't work. You'll just end up missing the life you have.
You missed a lot of heartache, sure. But David, you missed a lot of joy.
After all these years, I feel so free. Who knows where I might fly?
He'd kept this silence because his own secrets were darker, more hidden, and because he believed that his secrets had created hers.
A moment might be a thousand different things.
It wasn't right. He knew that, but it was like falling: once you started you couldn't stop until something stopped you.
It seemed there was no end at all to the lies a person could tell, once she got started.
All that sunny afternoon, traveling north and east, Caroline believed absolutely in the future. And why not? For if the worst had already happened to them in the eyes of the world, then surely, surely, it was the worst that they left behind them now.
Either things grow and change or they die.
Grief, it seemed, was a physical place.
...so young, so lonely and naive, that she imagined herself as some sort of vessel to be filled up with love. But it wasn't like that. The love was within her all the time and its only renewal came from giving it away.
...and the distance between them, millimeters only, the space of a breath, opened up and deepened, became a cavern at whose edge he stood.
His love for her was so deeply woven with resentment that he could not untangle the two.
She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love-- nothing, now, but bones.
So something had begun, and now she could not stop it. Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement. She could leave this place today. She could start a new life somewhere else.
A moment was not a single moment at all, but rather an infinite number of different moments, depending on who was seeing things and how.
Away from the bright motion of the party, she carried her sadness like a dark stone clenched in her palm.
It's funny how things seem different, suddenly.
He could hardly imagine anymore what his life would be without the weight of his hidden knowledge. He'd come to think of it as a kind of penance. It was self-destructive, he could see that, but that was the way things were. People smoked, they jumped out of airplanes, they drank too much and got into their cars and drove without seat belts.
Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.
No one could suspect the intricate mysteries of her heart.
A fear Paul had transformed all these years, like a gifted alchemist, into anger and rebellion.
The thing is, I used to like that: feeling special because I knew something no one else did. It's a kind of power, isn't it, knowing a secret? But lately I don't like it so much, knowing this. It's not really mine to know, is it?
This was her life. Not the life she had once dreamed of, not a life her younger self would ever have imagined or desired, but the life she was living, with all its complexities. This was her life, built with care and attention, and it was good.
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