The Last String

I’m still on the fence about John Green. So far I’ve read Looking for Alaska and The Fault In Our Stars. Paper Towns is even more wish fulfillment for nice guys that LFA was. It’s weird how I can simultaneously identify so much with both Margo and Q. There’s so much world to see, and I’ll never see all of it. The things that exist and the things that shouldn’t. The things that are slipping away. But I’m not brave enough to actually get in my car and never look back.

I will say one thing for John Green. He’s really good at metaphors. In PT, the central metaphor is Margo’s theory that people are made of paper and held up by strings. I can’t metaphor. I don’t even get jokes, much less metaphors.

I hate spring. It’s not the allergies, because mine aren’t too bad. It’s not even the birds, who wake up at an ungodly hour of the morning. Spring is the prelude to blinding, scalding, unforgiving summer. It’s the glimpses of yellow sunshine that forebode the oppressive months to come. It’s the unexpected rain that plunges everything back into winter for a few short hours.

Spring was the season of birthday parties and midnight ice cream runs, of binging TV shows that I can’t bear to watch anymore. Cherry blossoms are the only thing I like about spring. And now even they are just a reminder that I can never go back.

I have a friend who can put everything I’m feeling perfectly into words even when I can’t. I wish he could translate me. Maybe he could make me sound happy. There’s a line from Emily Dickinson that says, “Mirth is the mail of anguish,” and that might be the truest thing I’ve ever read. When I’m not being happy, I’m just empty inside. The last string is snapping.


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