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The old Lena is dead.

Lauren Oliver

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Lauren Oliver
Age: 41
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Dead
Lena

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They didn’t get me, I should have said. They saved me.
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...and once at Hana's house, when we stole some blackberry liqueur from her parents' liquor cabinet and drank until the ceiling started spinning overhead. Hana was laughing and giggling, but I didn't like it, didn't like the sweet sick taste in my mouth or the way my thoughts seemed to break apart like a mist in the sun.
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Poetry isn't like any writing I've ever heard before. I don't understand all of it, just bits of images, sentences that appear half-finished, all fluttering together like brightly colored ribbons in the wind.
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All this time, I thought we were growing apart because I was leaving Lena behind. But really it was the reverse. She was learning to lie. She was learning to love.
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Mice? Fine. Flying mice? Not so fine.
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I remember Lena's expression when he knocked on the door and how Alex had looked at her when she finally let him into the storeroom. I remember exactly what he was wearing, too, and the mess of his hair, the sneakers with their blue-tinged laces. His right shoe was untied. He didn't notice. He didn't notice anything but Lena.
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We can never understand. We can only try, fumbling our way through the tunneled places, reaching for light.
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We should be protected from the people who will leave us in the end, from all the people who will disappear or forget us.
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Live free or die. Four words. Thirteen letters. Ridges, bumps, swirls under my fingertips. Another story. We cling tightly to it, and our belief turns it to truth.
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No one can tell us no. No one can make us stop. We have picked each other and the rest of the world can go to hell.
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But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer - big explosion of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like honey - pick the snow?
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I'll find you, he says, watching me with the eyes I remember. I won't let you go again
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That is what Alex is now: a shadow-boy
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I need to live my life in the light of their deaths. I need to live.
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Please understand. Please forgive me. I prayed every day for you to be alive, until hope became painful. Don't hate me. I still love you.
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This was what being cured was like: like being in a fishbowl, circling always inside the same glass.
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Music, I think, he makes me feel like music
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Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging up your back and runing its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do-the only thing-is run.
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It's surprisingly nice out here, peaceful and pretty-strange to be standing in the middle of a little garden while enclosed by the massive stone walls of the prison, like being at the exact center of a hurricane, and finding peace and silence in the middle of so much shrieking damage.
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Huamns, uregulated, are cruel and capricious violet and selfish miserable and quarrelsome. It is only after their instincts and basic emotions have been controlled that they can be happy, generous, and good.
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