Karl Knausgaard

It was boiling hot.
The air was nearly glowing.
I liked it better when it was windy and raining. I could lie in my room then and watch films or read and sleep without feeling guilty about it. The sun was so unsparing. You were meant to be out in it, meant to be out with friends, meant to be having a good time. If I lay in my room then, there’d be something the matter with me, I’d be letting myself down, even though I’d be doing exactly the same thing, and even though my life was my own.

It was all their own doing, and yet they acted like it was something that just happened to them, like it was the same for everyone.

It was impossible to be in that house without it leaving a mark in some way, as if when I left bits of their chaos would be stuck to me and I always had to struggle to get rid of them again. They were a family in need, only they didn’t realize it.

We didn’t kill ourselves in our family.
We just didn’t.
We put our troubles aside.

What do we do about what we can sense, but cannot know?
We close our eyes to it.