When I’m reading a book, I’ll come across a sentence or a phrase or a few words that I want to keep and I fold over the corner of the page, like dropping breadcrumbs so I can find them again. If I scribbled dates in the margins, the dog-eared pages might be sign posts for my life, speaking to me in my moments of joy and sorrow and weakness and despair.
Tonight, on the plane, there was this:
It’s not that she doesn’t need rescuing but that no one else will be able to do it. She has always somehow known that she is the one who will have to rescue herself. Or maybe what’s depressing is that this knowledge seems like it should make life easier, and instead it makes it harder.
Sometimes you can do the right thing and be fair and think about others and move on and live life the same way we all do. And other times, it’s all you can do to somehow find enough strength for self-preservation.