The God of Small Things

Perhaps it’s true that things can change in a day. That a few dozen hours can affect the outcome of whole lifetimes. And that when they do, those few dozen hours, like the salvaged remains of a burned house—the charred clock, the singed photograph, the scorched furniture—must be resurrected from the ruins and examined. Preserved. Accounted for. Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. Imbued with new meaning. Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story.

There are things that you can't do - like writing letters to a part of yourself. To your feet or hair. Or heart.

People always loved best what they identified most with.

Some things come with their own punishments. Like bedrooms with built-in cupboards. They would all learn more about punishments soon. That they came in different sizes. That some were so big they were like cupboards with built-in bedrooms. You could spend your whole life in them, wandering through dark shelving.

The God of Loss.

The God of Small Things.

He left no footprints in the sand, no ripples in water, no image in mirrors.

It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that is purloined.

Our sorrows will never be sad enough. Our joys never happy enough. Our dreams never big enough. Our lives never important enough. To matter.

Excitement Always Leads to Tears.