It’s a question of attitude. If you really work at something you can do it up to a point. If you really work at being happy you can do it up to a point. But anything more than that you can’t. Anything more than that is luck.
If you listen to the radio for a whole hour there’s maybe one decent song. The rest is mass-produced garbage.
Life is like a box of cookies.
That’s evolution. Evolution’s always hard. Hard and bleak. No such thing as happy evolution.
What I was chasing in circles must have been the tail of the darkness inside me.
But knowing what I don’t want to do doesn’t help me figure out what I do want to do. I could do just about anything if somebody made me. But I don’t have an image of the one thing I really want to do. That’s my problem now. I can’t find the image.
It was as if I were writing letters to hold together the pieces of my crumbling life.
Sometimes, however, this sense of isolation, like acid spilling out of a bottle, can unconsciously eat away at a person’s heart and dissolve it.
This may be the most important proposition revealed by history: At the time, no one knew what was coming.
The journey I’m taking is inside me. Just like blood travels down veins, what I’m seeing is my inner self and what seems threatening is just the echo of the fear in my heart.
We were, the two of us, still fragmentary beings, just beginning to sense the presence of an unexpected, to be-aquired reality that would fill us and make us whole.
It’s easy to forget things you don’t need anymore.
When someone is trying very hard to get something, they don’t. And when they’re running away from something as hard as they can, it usually catches up with them.
Time really is one big continuous cloth, no? We habitually cut out pieces of time to fit us, so we tend to fool ourselves into thinking that time is our size, but it really goes on and on.
I don’t want our relationship to end like this. You’re one of the very few friends I have, and it hurts not being able to see you. When am I going to be able to talk to you? I want you to tell me that much, at least.
It seems to me, though, that you always understand very well what I can’t say very well. Trouble is I end up being even worse at saying things well.
I wasn’t particularly afraid of death itself. As Shakespeare said, die this year and you don’t have to die the next.
We were young, and we had no need for prophecies. Just living was itself an act of prophecy.
This place is too calm, too natural – too complete. I don’t deserve it. At least not yet.
Beyond the window, some kind of small, black thing shot across the sky. A bird, possibly. Or it might have been someone’s soul being blown to the far side of the world.