This wash’t how people spoke to each other. Where was the pretense that we liked each other, that we were both happy to be there, and we’d meet again?
You’re always sorry ‘after’ you do something. You never think about how they feel or how you’d feel ‘before’.
Our life is made up of time. Our days are measured in hours, our pay measured by those hours, our knowledge is measured by years.
We grab a quick few minutes in our busy day to have a coffee break. We rush back to our desks, we watch the clock, we live by appointments.
Time is more precious than gold, more precious than diamonds, more precious than oil or any valuable treasures. It is time that we do not have enough of; it is time that causes the war within our hearts, and so we must spend it wisely. Time cannot be packaged and ribboned and left under trees for Christmas morning. Time can’t be given. But it can be shared.
Appreciating your loved ones,” Raphie said, a little embarrassed at first. “Acknowledging all the special people in your life. Concentrating on what’s important.
The world went on, simple as that, and there was no bubble big enough to protect her.
A funeral is like a little game, really. You have to just play along and say the right thing and behave the right way until it’s over. Be pleasant but don’t smile too much; be sad but don’t overdo it or the family will feel worse than they already do. Be hopeful but don’t let your optimism be taken as a lack of empathy or an inability to deal with the reality. Because if anybody was to be truly honest there would be a lot of arguments, finger-pointing, tears, snot, and screaming.
The fear was there; it was there all the time, but it was merely disguised as something else for others to see.
Were we lost and unaccounted for, or was this where we truly belonged and our normal lives the original error?
We’re not in this life just to work, we’re in it to live.
And then one good thing happened that day, the first good thing, the only good thing, but sometimes you only ever need one good thing.
Somewhere along the line I had forgotten to figure out who and where I was.
I think life likes to do that every now and again. Every so often it likes to dip and when you feel like you can’t take any more it smoothes out again.
She felt disgusting and used and like she could never trust anyone ever again, and the last thing she wanted was food.
To look back, to go back, is not to be weak. It is not to reopen wounds. It takes strength, it takes courage. It takes a person who is more in control of who they are to cast a discerning, non-judgmental eye over who they once were.
She was nicknamed the graveyard. Any secret, any piece of confidential information, personal or otherwise, that went in never, ever came back out. You knew you were safe; you knew you would never be judged or, if you were it would be silently, so you’d never know.
Dad was more into last impressions than first ones, which makes his death all the more symbolic.
So I’m beginning to think that when I’m fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety years old I still won’t be any closer to being wise and knowledgeable. Perhaps people on their deathbeds, who have had long, long lives, seen it all, travelled the world, have had kids, been through their own personal traumas, beaten their demons and learned the harsh lessons of life will be thinking : God, people in heaven must really know it all.
She was being a jealous, bitter and incredibly selfish friend, she knew that, but Holly needed to be selfish these days in order to survive. She.