And every mistake. But every good thing we do as well. They are immortal, every single touch we leave behind. Even if nobody sees them or remembers them, that doesn’t matter. That trail will always be what happened, what we did, every choice. The past lives on forever. There’s no changing it.
Clinging to an idealized past was a poison of sorts, that bastard Nostalgia, making people think there was a better time and place if they could just get back to it.
He continued to see inevitable events from the past as avoidable, long after they’d taken their course.
There were certain things, learned so young and remembered so deep that they felt like little stones in the center of her mind. These would be the parts of her that rotted last, the bits left over once the rest skittered off on the wind or was drunk deep by the roots.
And Lukas would tell them to be good to each other, that there were only so many of them left, and that all the books and all the stars in the universe were pointless with no one to read them, no one to peer through the parting clouds for them.
No life had ever been truly saved, not in the history of mankind. They were merely prolonged. Everything comes to an end.
The idea of saving anything was folly, a life especially. No life had been truly saved, not in the history of mankind. They were merely prolonged. Everything comes to an end.
What we do going forward defines who we are.” Juliette, Pg. 397.
To impatient youth, all things took for ever and any kind of waiting was torture. Pg. 221.
Donald reached for the straw and steered it toward her lips. Such dangerous lips. They would tell him anything, keep him confused, use him so that she might feel less hollow, less alone.
Love was earned and hard-fought and cherished. It was Marco’s face and his rough palm on her cheek. It wasn’t something a family got for being a family.
There is good and bad in all things. We find what we expect to find. We see what we expect to see. I have learned that if I tilt my head just right and squint, the world outside is beautiful.
Health and understanding seem to intersect in one’s forties, the one peaking as the other begins its slow ascent. Maybe you’ll know one day what you should’ve taken the time to appreciate.
When the headlights hit us, the rays acted like a steel blade slicing through our indecision. Our thoughts and plans fell away – as did our logic and ability to reason. All that remained was the urge to flee.
Apologies weren’t welds; they were just an admission that something had been broken. Often between two people.
All great discoveries were like this. It was the rare souls full of hope who showed the world what could be done; and then came the thundering herds, those doubters and naysayers who had once put up barriers, now shoving everyone out of their way.
Montana wants to scream, but the thing she is angry at is in the past. The past can’t hear her. This is the thing, her great discovery. She smiles at the future. Happiness is a choice.
That hotshot pilot who buzzed the Hudson is forgotten. Here is something new. The boom and the smoke – these two things are unrelated in my mind.
She is on the planet Tralfamadore, billions of light years from Earth, but she feels right at home in this stranger’s arms. The way a mosquito feels at peace in amber.
Killing a man should be harder than waving a length of pipe in their direction. It should take long enough for one’s conscience to get in the way.