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Sometimes I'm afraid to go to sleep because of what I'm leaving behind.

Lauren Oliver

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Lauren Oliver
Age: 42
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Leaving
Afraid
Behinds
Behind
Sleep
Sometimes

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I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.
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Time jumps. It leaps. It pours away like water through fingers.
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There's still always the possibility that I've gone totally, clinically cuckoo. But somehow I don't think so anymore. An article I once read said that crazy people don't worry about being crazy - that's the whole problem.
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I think of Grace and feel a sharp pain in my chest.
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People are like houses. They could open their doors. You could walk through their rooms and touch the objects hidden in their corners. But something--the structure, the wiring, the invisible mechanism that kept the whole thing standing--remai ned invisible, suggested only by the fact of its existing at all.
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In one of the tents, Julian is sleeping. And in another: Alex
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I just want to be normal, like everybody else. Are you sure that being like everybody else will make you happy?
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I close my eyes. An image flashes—emerging from the van with Julian after our escape from New York City believing, in that moment, that we had escaped the worst, that life would begin again for us. Instead life has only grown harder.
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Nothing exists but him.
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I'm used to a feeling of doubleness, of thinking one thing and having to do another, a constant tug-of-war.
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There's a place for everything and everyone, you know. That is the mistake they make above. They think that only certain people have a place. Only certain kinds of people belong. The rest is waste. But even waste must have a place. Otherwise it will clog and clot, and rot and fester.
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I’ve never really had a party before.” “Why did you have one now?” I say, just to keep him talking. He gives a half laugh. “I thought if I had a party, you would come.
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That's when you realize that most of it-life, the relentless mechanism of existing-isn't about you. It doesn't include you at all. It will thrust onward even after you've jumped the edge. Even after you're dead.
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And when we are with Alex, I might as well not be there. They speak in a language of whispers and giggles and secrets their words are like a fairy-tale tangle of thorns, which place a wall between us.
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