A potential life

It’s as if the thread of our potential life were always running under our life. A life that I would have overseen if things hadn’t gone so wrong. A proper life in which you hadn’t dragged me down, in which we could have cooperated and merged into someone real, someone with continuity, solidity, influence. And at the same time it’s as if we both deny this potential life, deny it as something as dubious and unreal as ourselves. Oh, things are grim, we agree. But it’s not just that. It’s as though if we were to start all over again it would all turn out the same, and this same potential life would still run beneath beside or beyond us, taunting us.


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