We Are Okay Kitap Alıntıları – Nina LaCour

Korkuyorum, beni hiçbir zaman sevmemiş olmasından.

Korkuyorum, beni hiçbir zaman sevmemiş olmasından.

Etrafım insanlarla çevrili olduğunda dahi daima yalnız olduğumu biliyorum.

Demek istediğim, keder peşinde koşan biri olma. Gerçek hayatta yeterince keder var zaten.

En masumane şeyler en berbat hatıraları tetikleyebilir.

Tebessüm etmek gelmiyor içimden. Dışarısının karanlık, odanın aydınlık olduğunu bildiğim halde, saha operasyon görevlisinin bizi görebiliyor olduğuna inanmak güç. Görünmez olmalıyız. O kadar yalnızız ki.

Birisi daima ölür. Bu, kimin ne zaman öleceği meselesidir.

Bir şeylerini yitirmiş insanları birbirine bağlayan gizli bir bağ mı var acaba diye merak ediyorum. Bu, herkes bir şeylerini yitirir gibi genel bir mevzu değil. Daha ziyade sanki hayatınızı, benliğinizi elinizden alır, öyle ki yüzünüze baktığınızda o yüz artık sizin yüzünüz değildir.

En masumane şeyler en berbat hatıraları tetikleyebilir.

Birisi daima ölür.. Bu, kimin ne zaman öleceği meselesidir.

Gerçek olan bizleriz.

Yalnız olmanın bir çok şekli vardır..

Korkuyorum, beni hiçbir zaman sevmemiş olmasından.

“Ama bazen iki insan arasında derin bir bağ oluşur. Bu bağ aşkı önemsiz kılar. Bu bağın cinsellikle alakası yoktur. Ruhlarla ilgilidir. Bir insan olarak kim olduğunun en derin yanıyla ilgilidir.”

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Size bir insana sığabileceğinden daha fazla mutluluk diliyorum.

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Karanlık bir yer, bilmemek.
Teslim olmak zor.

Ama sanırım çoğu zaman yaşadığımız yer burası. Sanırım burası hepimizin yaşadığı yer, bu yüzden belki de çok yalnız olmak zorunda değil.

Belki içine yerleşebilirim, rahatlayabilirim, belirsizlik içinde bir ev yapabilirim.

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It’s a dark place, not knowing. It’s difficult to surrender to. But I guess it’s where we live most of the time. I guess it’s where we all live, so maybe it doesn’t have to be so lonely. Maybe I can settle into it, cozy up to it, make a home inside uncertainty.

Those days and nights at the motel, I thought I was afraid of his ghost, but I wasn’t.
I was afraid of my loneliness.
And how I’d been tricked.
And the way I’d convinced myself of so much: that I wasn’t sad, that I wasn’t alone.
I was afraid of the lies I’d told myself.

I am afraid he never loved me.

In my mind, we keep ending, ending. I try to stay here, now, for as long as we can.

YOU GO THROUGH LIFE thinking there’s so much you need. Your favorite jeans and sweater. The jacket with the faux-fur lining to keep you warm. Your phone and your music and your favorite books. Mascara. Irish Breakfast tea and cappuccinos from Trouble Coffee. You need your yearbooks, every stiffly posed school-dance photo, the notes your friends slipped into your locker. You need the camera you got for your sixteenth birthday and the flowers you dried. You need your notebooks full of the things you learned and don’t want to forget. You need your bedspread, white with black diamonds. You need your pillow—it fits the way you sleep. You need magazines promising self-improvement. You need your running shoes and your sandals and your boots. Your grade report from the semester you got straight As. Your prom dress, your shiny earrings, your pendants on delicate chains. You need your underwear, your light-colored dozens and dozens of shells in glass jars.
You think you need all of it.
Until you leave with only your phone, your wallet, and a picture of your mother.

I love her, but there is no going back. No bonfires on the beach. No mouths pressed together. No hungry fumblings. No fingers through her hair. But maybe I can go further back, to a less complicated time when cute was an accurate description of my grandfather and Mabel was simply my best friend.

I was alone, just like I’d hoped, but it felt terrible.

I listened to the same heartbroken song the entire bus ride home, because it was still a summer when sadness was beautiful.

The trouble with denial is that when the truth comes, you aren’t ready.

It was a summer of trying not to think too deeply. A summer of pretending that the end wasn’t coming. A summer when I got lost in time, when I rarely knew what day it was, rarely cared about the hour. A summer so bright and warm it made me believe the heat would linger, that there would always be more days.

It’s a dark place, not knowing. It’s difficult to surrender to. But I guess it’s where we live most of the time. I guess it’s where we all live, so maybe it doesn’t have to be so lonely. Maybe I can settle into it, cozy up to it, make a home inside uncertainty.