She loved so much misteries tha she became one.
Your life is a story told about you, not one that you tell.
I felt like I might end up anywhere, and imagining all the futures I might have, all the Azas I might become, was a glorious and welcome vacation from living with the me I currently was.
And if you can’t pick what you do or think about, then maybe you aren’t really real, you know? Maybe I’m just a lie that I’m whispering to myself.
Maybe you’ve been in love. I man real love, the kind my grandmother used to describe by quoting the apostle Paul’s First letter to the Corinthians, the love that is kind and patient, that does not envy or boast, that beareth all things and believeth all things and endureth all things. I don’t like to throw the L-word around; it’s too good and rare a feeling to cheapen with overuse. You can live a good life without ever knowing real love, of the Corinthians variety,...
I like short poems with weird rhyme schemes, because that’s what life is like.
I know love is real because I feel it.
Thought is not action.
I kept thinking there were two kinds of adults: There were Peter Van Houtens – miserable creatures who scoured the earth in search of something to hurt. And then there were people like my parents, who walked around zombically, doing whatever they had to do to keep walking around. Neither of these futures struck me as particularly desirable.
Trying to find something solid to hold on to in this rolling sea of thoughts.
Be kind to yourself.
I was thinking about how part of your self can be in a place while at the same time the most important parts are in different place, a place that can’t be accessed via your senses.
The world is what it is. But the world is also what you bring to it, and who you share it with.
I’ve got a theory about uniforms. I think they design them so that you become, like, a nonperson, so that you’re not Daisy Ramirez, a Human Being, but instead a thing that brings people pizza and exchanges their tickets for plastic dinosaurs.
I don’t want to be thin or conventionally beautiful or straight or brilliant. No, what I really want – and what I never get – is to be appreciated.
Seeing your past – or a person from your – can for me at least be physically painful. I’m overwhelmed by a melancholic ache – and I want the past back, not matter the cost. It doesn’t matter that it won’t come back; that it never even actually existed as I remember it – I want it back. I want things to be like they were, or like I remember them having been: Whole. But she doesn’t remind me of the past, for some reason, she feels present tense.
It sucked having a dead person in your family, and I knew what he meant, about seeking solace in the old light. Three years from now, I knew, he’d find a different favorite star, one with older light to gaze upon. And when time caught up with that one, he’d love a farther star, and a farther one, because you can’t let the light catch up with the present. Otherwise you’d forget.
You’re a we. You’re a you. You’re a she, an it, a they. My kingdom for an I.
But the things that make other people nervous have never scared me. I’m not afraid of men in golf carts or horror movies or roller coasters. I didn’t know precisely what I was afraid of, but it wasn’t this.
In job interviews they’d ask me, What’s your greatest weakness? and I’d explain that I’ll probably spend a good portion of the workday terrorized by thoughts I’m forced to think, possessed by a nameless and formless demon, so if that’s going to be an issue, you might not want to hire me.