He tried to name which of the deadly seven might apply, and when he failed he decided to append an eighth, regret.
What you have lost will not be returned to you; it always be lost. You’re left with only your scars to mark the void. All you can choose to do is go on, or not. But if you go on, it’s knowing you carry your scars with you.
Our minds aren’t made to hold on to the particulars of pain the way we do bliss. It’s a gift God gives us, a sign of His care for us.
No looking back. Life goes one way only, and whatever opinions you hold about the past having nothing to do with anything but your own damn weakness. Nothing changes what already happened. It will always have happened. You either let it break you down or you don’t.
That’s the way it is at some point in life. An inevitable consequence of living. A lot of things begin falling away.
The man had asked, Why do you want sheep? The wool? Meat? Monroe’s answer had been, For the atmosphere.
Some far day when she had become a better person and could feel something besides stinging anger that her beautiful, gentle sister had not protected herself more carefully against a world of threat.
Back then, he’d have to leave at the end of August for the start of school, so the week before Labor Day became it’s own tiny season of gloom, like a hundred Sunday nights crowded together.
Magic singers proclaiming hope and despair in the dark.
His spells portrayed the spirit as a frail thing, contstantly under attack and in need of stength, always threatening to die inside you. Inman found this notion dismal indeed, since he had been taught by sermon and hymn to hold as truth that the soul of man never dies.
Luce’s new stranger children were small and beautiful and violent.
Claim your space. Draw a circle of light around it. Push back against the dark. Don’t just survive. Celebrate.
Ask her what she craved, and she’d get a little frantic about things like books, the woods, music. Plants and the seasons. Also freedom.