We will only be happy," she said to herself, "when we no longer need each
other. When we can live a life of our own, a life that belongs to us, that does not look at others. When we are free.
Solitude was like a drug that she wasn't sure she wanted to do without.
People who are never satisfied destroy everything around them.
I am fully aware that if I had not been the reader that I am, I would not be the person that I am. This was fundamental in the construction of my morals, of what I am as a citizen, as a woman. I know how carnal the relationship we can have with literature, to the point that it is part of you, that it becomes an organ in its own right.
She had been in one of those sleeps so heavy they leave you feeling sad, disorientated, your stomach full of tears. A sleep so deep, so dark, that you see yourself dying, that you wake up soaked with cold sweat, paradoxically exhausted.
I will be punished for that, she hears herself think. I will be punished for not knowing how to love.
She drinks and the discomfort of living, the shyness of breathing, all this anguish dissolves in the liquid sips.