He pushed the letter, irretrievable, his single chance, into the dark chasm of the post box. Irrevocable, he thought, as a grave. He did it quickly, as if he were throwing away all the hope left in the world.
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Expectations were high, my performance low. I knew the subject, but somehow couldnât articulate my ideas coherently. Delegates didnât hold back when it came to criticism and told me afterwards that my strategy was unclear, my content muddled and that I had given them no clear direction. It would have been so easy for me to have run my presentation by Louis in the days before I gave it - but I hadnât wanted to subject myself to negative feedback. So Iâd blundered on. I felt that Iâd blown it and feared being sent back home.
Osita wished, much later, that heâd told Vivek the truth then, that he was so beautiful he made the air around him dull, made Osita hard with desire. âTake it off,â he snapped instead, his throat rough. âPut it back before they catch us.
I wanted to grab his cigarette from his rough lips. I wanted to burn my fleshâany cigarette-sized section of fleshâwith it. Then, for just a second, I wanted to burn his flesh instead. Perhaps I wanted to see physical pain in his eyes because I couldnât see my own pain, not really, not clearly. I was horrified by my thoughts, but my horror did not quiet them.
OK, weâll tell her you dug the grave.â Itâs the truth â stretched, but still true. Besides, what would be left of love without truth stretched beyond its limits, without those better versions of ourselves that we present as the only ones that exist?
He would understand, later, that there is a moment when your life must become your own; you must claim it from all the other stories youâve been given, that have been handed down or thrust upon you, or that youâve been left holding while someone else claimed theirs. He already knew that the life unchosen, left behind because of cowardice or shame, does not wither. But instead, without exception, grows rampant, choking the path ahead.