![]() ![]() There was an old fairy tale called The History of Photogen and Nycteris that she still carried a copy of. “Like Nycteris, she thought, and cringed. ![]() She loved him though she knew no good could ever come from such a bond.” ![]() ![]() Some love was just the bad, all the time: an endless parade of electrified bones and drowned lungs and hearts that burned to a cinder inside the cage of your chest.Īnd so she looked down at her son and loved him with the kind of twisted, complex feeling that came from having never wanted him in the first place she loved him with bitterness, and she loved him with resignation. If love were a balance of electric lights and electric jolts, two sides of an equally weighted coin, then fair enough. Punishingly, fatally destructive.Īnd the other thing, the real bloody clincher of it all, was that the good and the bad didn’t get served up equally. Yet electricity could also fry, rivers could drown, and fires could burn love could be destructive. That it was a river in your soul to lift you up and carry you away, or a fire inside the heart to keep you warm. Poets would tell you that love was electricity in your veins that could light a room. “For here was the thing that no fairy tale would ever admit, but that she understood in that moment: love was not inherently good.Ĭertainly, it could inspire goodness. ![]()
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