Men don't know their own weight, they don't understand the physical terror they can instil in another person simply by tumbling through a door. They're hurricanes tearing through a forest of saplings as they get up drunkenly from the kitchen table and stumble from room to room without being aware of what they're trampling on.
When thousands of spectators stand up and roar, most people become uncertain and back away, but the winner steps up. That's the sort of mentality we're talking about. Everyone dreams about being the best, about being the one who fires the final shot in the last crucial moments of the season, but there are desperately few of us who actually dare to take the chance when absolutely everything is at stake. That's the difference between us.
People will always choose a simple lie over a complicated truth, because the lie has one unbeatable advantage: the truth always has to stick to what actually happened, whereas the lie just has to be easy to believe.
We'd do anything for them; they never know because they don't understand the immensity of something that is unconditional. A parent's love is unbearable, reckless, irresponsible. They're so small when they sleep in their beds and we sit beside them, shattered to pieces inside. It's a lifetime of shortcomings, and feeling guilty, we stick happy pictures up everywhere that hurts is hidden away. The silent tears in darkened rooms. We lie awake, terrified of all the things that can happen to them, eveything they might be subjected to, all the situations in which they could end up victims.
Summer in Beartown is capable of enchanting anyone: the way the scent of roses gets stronger in darkened rooms, the way the light in a place so used to darkness is emotionally overwhelming. Greenery suddenly froths around us, it's light almost all night through, warm breezes chase one another around the corners of buildings like calves let out to pasture. But we have learned never to trust the heat; it's fleeting and unreliable and always lets us down. The trees shed their clothing quickly in this part of the country, all at once, like a night-dress; the days soon grow shorter, the horizon comes closer. Sooner than we realize, winter falls, white, and erases all the color of the other seasons, the world becomes a blank piece of paper again, a frozen, freshly ironed sheet when we look out of the window one morning. We've pulled our boats from the lake, leaving parts of ourselves in the bottom of them. The people we were in july, those summer people, will rest on a bed of wood deep below the snow for so many months that we will almost have forgotten them by next spring.