It is easier to be in love in a room with closed doors. To have the whole world in one room. One person. The universe condensed and intensified and burning, bright and alive and electric.
Having a physical reaction to a lack of book is not unusual.
Reading a book four times in one day is perfectly normal behavior.
It doesn’t look like anything special, like it contains an entire world, though the same could be said of any book.
Occasionally, Fate pulls itself together again and Time is always waiting.
I accepted because mysterious ladies offering bourbon under the stars is very much my aesthetic.
For a while I was looking for a person but I didn’t find them and after that I was looking for myself. Now that I’ve found me I’m back to exploring, which is what I was doing in the first place before I was doing anything else and I think I was supposed to be exploring all along.
There is no fixing. There is only moving forward in the brokenness.
Everyone is a part of a story, what they want is to be part of something worth recording.
There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift.
This is not where our story ends, he writes. This is only where it changes.
Spiritual but not religious,” Zachary clarifies. He doesn’t say what he is thinking, which is that his church is held-breath story listening and late-night-concert ear-ringing rapture and perfect-boss fight-button pressing. That his religion is buried in the silence of freshly fallen snow, in a carefully crafted cocktail, in between the pages of a book somewhere after the beginning but before the ending.
There are so many pieces to a person. So many small stories and so few opportunities to read them. ‘I would like to look at you’ seems like such an awkward request.
How are you feeling? Zachary asks. “Like I’m losing my mind but in a slow, achingly beautiful sort of way.
It is a sanctuary for storytellers and storykeepers and storylovers. They eat and sleep and dream surrounded by chronicles and histories and myths.
A book is made of paper but a story is a tree.
A girl Lost in the woods is a different sort of creature than a girl who walks purposefully through the trees even though she does not know her way. This girl in the woods is not lost. She is exploring.
They asked if I thought he would have done something – like jumped-off-a-bridge something – and I said I didn’t think so, but I also think most of us are two steps away from jumping off something most of the time and you never know if the next day is going to push you in one way or another.
She is young enough to carry fear with her without letting it into her heart. Without being scared. She wears her fear lightly, like a veil, aware that there are dangers but letting the crackling awareness hover around her. It does not sink in, it buzzes in excitement like a swarm of invisible bees.
I’ve gotten accustomed to that tiny piece of hope that sits in the middle of the not knowing.