Excerpt:

Prologue

The Philosopher once told me there were two ways in which us humans could deconstruct and distort our existence. One of these ways is to see ourselves as completely apart from the rest of life, from other people and things and trees and leaves. In our minds, we become our own miniature universe which revolves around one thing and one thing only: our ego. We falsely believe that nothing can touch us or hurt us. Maybe it stems from apathy. Maybe it is a matter of pride. Or maybe we are not able to deal with the pain that admitting we are partakers in life would cause.

The other extreme our minds can take is believing that we are an essential part of everything that exists. That somehow our smallest motions and decisions affect the cosmic balance of the universe. We think our steps echo in the core of the stars. We think our breathing flows through the rocks of the river. We think the baby nursing from its mother’s breast has a significant effect on our existence. We think that the butterfly who is crushed will determine if we die this day or the next. That somehow all this is linked and inter-connected. An intricate web of oneness that we play a part in.

Delusions. That is what the Philosopher called them. And I thought I was free. I thought I was a balanced individual, able to accurately place myself into the grand scheme of life. If I admitted any failures in my mind or in my being, it was that I belonged to the extreme who claimed to be free from the influence of others. I thought that they couldn’t touch me. That I was alone. But that freedom was a delusion as well. When I moved to the country to be John’s wife, I realized that it had affected me. Each minuscule touch and movement of others had left its mark on my mind. I thought I had been free, but in fact I had been deeply entangled in the web of the city. I had added to the mess of motion and chaos my own blood and heartbeat.

I learned that tearing away was not the same as stepping on a train and watching the walls of the city close behind me. I learned that living in a red-bricked house overlooking a manicured park is not the same as belonging to the country. Here I know the feeling of being alone. Of being separate. Of having no one to share in your past. The women here do not understand the rules of the city. They can’t a imagine life without security. Or without hope and promise. But at least I can pretend. I can put on a smile at their parties as easily as I slip into the black dresses John buys for me. I can talk of their arts and their hors d’oeuvres and whether the smoked salmon is too smoked indeed. I can hide behind a façade of casual flirtation, which is safer than getting involved with life here. Or even more dangerously, of admitting that life here will never get involved with me.