We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.
Isaac MarionI notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.
Isaac MarionTag: warm bodies isaac r marion
Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?
Isaac MarionTag: warm bodies isaac r marion
I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.
Isaac MarionTag: warm bodies isaac r marion
But we don’t remember those lives. We can’t read our diaries.’
‘It doesn’t matter. We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.’
‘But can we choose that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘We’re Dead. Can we really choose anything?’
‘Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
I like how you remember things,’ I say.
She looks at me. ‘Well, we have to. We have to remember everything. If we don’t, by the time we grow up it’ll be gone for ever.
Tag: warm bodies isaac r marion
There is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. A gap so wide my feelings can't cross it.
Isaac MarionI'd like to sit down with him and pick his brain, just a tiny bite somewhere in the frontal lobe to get a taste of his thoughts" -Warm Bodies
Isaac MarionTag: funny zombies warm-bodies
Everything dies eventually. We all know that. People, cities, whole civilizations. Nothing lasts. So if existence was just binary, dead or alive, here or not here, what would be the fucking point in anything?"
She looks up at some falling leaves and puts out her hand to catch one, a flaming red maple. "My mom used to say that's why we have memory. And the opposite of memory - hope. So things that are gone can still matter. So we can build off our pasts and make futures." She twirls the leaf in front of her face, back and forth. "Mom said life only makes any sense if we can see time how God does. Past, present and future all at once."
I allow myself to look at Julie. She sees my tears and tries to wipe one away. "So what's the future?" I ask, not flinching as her fingers brush my eye. "I can see the past and the present, but what's the future?"
"Well . . . ," she says with a broken laugh. "I guess that's the tricky part. The past is made out of facts . . . I guess the future is just hope."
"Or fear."
"No." She shakes her head firmly and sticks the leaf in my hair. "Hope.
I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.
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