Some days. I will go down stairs, walk down the corridor and close the door behind me as I enter the room to the left. As I turn, I will gently lock the door and wait for the click as I twist the key. And, as I face that just closed door, I pause. Then, suddenly I will bring down my head upon the aging wood as hard as my body will allow me. Not once. Perhaps twice, maybe thrice. And then I will sit. And stare.
These are the days when I am not sure of myself. When I am not sure if this darkness that drives pins into the back of my head is merely an illusion… or the plain and simple truth. Do I bang bone against solid wood in the hope that lurking thoughts will temporarily flee from their darkest caves? Or do I do so in the hope that slowly, slowly, each one of these desperate days, I will work towards my timely self-extinction.
Some days. These are the mysteries that suffocate my skull.
L.J. Smith, The Awakening
Une Femme Mariée, Jean-Luc Godard (1964)
elizabeth bishop with her cat, minnow, 1938. photos by louise crane.
Ива́ново де́тство, 1962.