Some of us have to live with being mean. One means well, but ends
up hurting some other who has no real interest in imagination. Someone
I know is confused by everyday niceness, it makes no sense to
him, and this perplexes us more than the sense he is shouldering horrors
many would say are not his.
In a flicker of a lash, somebody becomes greedy with murder and he
can't not think of it, even when he considers calm, even when he wants
only to drown in some body's water. He walks until he finds strange
streets, dares himself to stop every few feet, see if the panic has
let up. He doesn't think he is possessed the way his cousin believes,
and he doesn't believe much else.
This is never easy to say. They were so different, the other ones,
we didn't know what to make of it. But when the ground within us started
to give, we held only on to each other the best way we could, surprising
ourselves with that love.