Stefany Anne Golberg’s article on Waiting for Godot, and love, is worth a fistful of your private moments.
You could, like Vladimir or Estragon, easily be talked into hanging yourself from a tree by the only one who could save you from it. We must escape. We cannot. We can’t go on. We do.
I hope at least once in your life you are fortunate enough to experience the deep-ocean turmoil and grinding anxiety and daily horror and the rush of power and fear that comes from discovering you hold someone else’s pink heart in your hands, and them yours, that is love. How else will you know you’re alive?
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