Quería que pudiesen sentir cómo me abrasaban las venas, ese sentimiento de inmadiatez y de final. Cada momento era vital, cada minuto el último, yo lo sentía así, era una sobreviviente de mis ganas de vivir.
Todo el mundo tan apacible, viviendo cada día por vez. Y yo sentía que la vida era maravillosa y se me escapaba, la veía desde mi telaraña de cotidianeidad. No podía soportar la idea de que los demás no se desvivieran por correr en el viento, escapar de todo, porque sin secuazes rebelarse era tan difícil. Deseaba atrapar el sol antes que se escapase por el horizonte porque si no era hoy, no sería jamás. Quería ir sólo hacia adelante, hacia adelante, y verlo todo.
Quería que el mundo entero sintiera mi desesperación. No toleraba que mis gritos fueran una simple misiva desde el mundo de mis pensamientos. Era un lugar incómodo para estar sola.

"...Yet the stories moved her. She couldn't deny it. And they moved her in a way only true feelings could. It wasn't sentiment that brought tears to her eyes. The stories weren't sentimental. They were tough, even cruel. No, what made her weep was being remainded of an inner life she'd been so familiar with as a child; a life that was both escape from, and a revenge upon the pains and frustrations of childhood; a life that was neither mawkish nor unknowing; a life of mind places -haunted, soaring- that she'd chosen to forget when she'd took up the cause of adulthood. (...) Now the book beakoned, with it's chimeras and it's sorceries; all ambiguity; all flux; and her pragmatism would be worthless. No matter whatever the years had taught her about loss, and compromise, and defeat she was here invited back into a forest in which maidens tamed dragons; and one of those maidens still had her face."
Clive Barker, Weaveworld







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