Do you understand tragedy?
I don’t understand tragedy. I don’t want to understand the kind of tragedy that comes to the forefront of my mind. The kind of irreparable, scarring, terminal, heart-wrenching agony. Who would want to understand it? Yet people write about it everyday. Actors put themselves in those roles everyday. Falsely. Imaginatively. Leaning only on the observations of those who truly understand tragedy. We can feel the remnants of it. The lingering empathy, heavily diluted by inexperience. All I have to do is think about what would happen if I ever lost my children and I’m there, in that specter of tragedy, but nowhere even remotely close to the real thing.
Do you understand love?
I don’t understand love. I want to understand that kind of connection that we all dream about. That security. The soul-filling, giddy, all-consuming, breathtaking fullness inside of your being. That awe of my mate, because he is in awe of me. The devotion like no other. The comfort, the intimate secrets no one else will ever be able to share, those looks from across the room that no one else in the world could ever possibly decipher – though, many will try. They’ll assume to know, but they really won’t and all the while, they’ll be longing for their own true love.