Extraits

I don't want to wake up when I'm seventy-four only to realize I haven't lived.

Dear Iris,

I have to say that an eyeball is the furthest image from my mind. Even the fierce flower that inspired your mother to name you wasn't the first thing I thought of. Rather :

Iris : transitive verb : to make iridescent.

Let us make our names exactly what we want to be.

-C

Do you ever feel as if you wear armor, day after day ? That when people look at you, they see only the shine of steel that you've so carefully encased yourself in ? They see what they want to see in you - the warped reflection of their own face, or a piece of the sky, or a shadow cast between buildings. They see all the times you've made mistakes, all the times you've failed, all the times you've hurt them or disappoint them. As if that is all you will ever be in their eyes.

How do you change something like that ? How do you make your life your own and not feel guilt over it?

She reminded herself that even though she had been left, time and time again, by the people she loved, Roman had come to her.

Because you are not alone. Not in your fear or your grief or your hopes or your dreams.

You are not alone.

"I wanted to see if you would like to run with me," he said. Somehow he made the possibility sound sophisti-cated, even as they stood facing each other in wrinkled jumpsuits at ten o'clock at night.

Iris's brow raised. "I'm sorry?"

"Run. Two feet on and off the ground, pushing forward. Tomorrow morning."

You remove a piece of armor for them; you let the light stream in, even if it makes you wince. Perhaps that is how you learn to be soft yet strong, even in fear and uncertainty. One person, one piece of steel.

But I realize that people are just people, and they carry their own set of fears, dreams, desires, pains, and mistakes. I can't expect someone else to make me feel complete; I must find it on my own. And I think I was always writing for myself, to sort through my loss and worry and tangled ambitions. Even now, I think about how effortless it is to lose oneself in words, and yet also find who you are.

Sometimes I'm afraid to love other people.

Everyone I care about eventually leaves me, whether it's death or war or simply because they don't want me. They go places I can't find, places I can't reach. And I'm not afraid to be alone, but I'm tired of being the one left behind. I'm tired of having to rearrange my life after the people within it depart, as if I'm a puzzle and I'm now missing pieces and I will never feel that pure sens of completion again.

How does that feel?

It feels like wearing shoes that are too small, she whispered. With every step you notice it. It feels like blisters on your heels. It feels like a lump of ice in your chest that never melts and you can sleep a few hours at a time, because you're always wondering where they are and those worries seep into your dreams.