You go through life thinking there’s so much you need... Until you leave with only your phone, your wallet, and a picture of your mother.
I wish her more happiness than can fit in a person. I wish her the kind of happiness that spills over.
I used to cry over a story and then close the book, and it all would be over. Now everything resonates, sticks like a splinter, festers.
I wonder what would happen if I stopped walking, if I let the crowd fill up the space between us. Would he notice? Would he wade back to find me? Or would he keep going, because forward is his destination and I am not?
Empathy is wonderful, but you can still overdose on it if you try too much to fast.
I have only just learned how to be here. Life is paper-thin and fragile. Any sudden change could rip it wide-open. The.
It was terrifying, the idea that we could fall asleep girls, minty breathed and nightgowned, and wake to find ourselves wolves. “I.
There are no scenes in life, there are only minutes. And none are skipped over and they all lead to the next.
I was afraid of how we lived without opening doors.
I’m sorry I left without telling you,” she says. “I wasn’t ready. I wanted it so much, and I wasn’t ready for that.
You’re never going to be ready”... “Don’t you see that? You have to forget about ready. If you don’t, you’re always going to run away.
As much as people want to look on the bright side, skip straight to the future when everything will be okay, the truth is that there is this time, where you sometimes have trouble breathing, and you feel powerless. Like you’re screaming and no one hears you, and the myth of the happy future is nothing you can count on, and the only word that makes sense is escape.
It’s about what I know is true. Because I’m looking at this bright red storm of color on a canvas, at all my delicate lines and passionate brushstrokes. I’m looking at something so urgent and true, so far beyond what I thought I was capable of making.
It’s an ache. A heavy sadness. The kind that is brought on by heartbreak and then perpetuated by everything that reminds you of the way it’s broken. The kind that feels impossible to shrug off or tuck away. But there is another feeling, too, surfacing, and soon I discover that it’s the kind that makes the heartbreak almost something to savor because it is so simple and true.
No one talked about the way the summer was supposed to unfold or the places we’d find ourselves in the fall.
Maybe we always were the people we imagined ourselves to be. Able and brave. Maybe we still are.
And we step off the curb, all of us together, as if to say: Here we come. Through hard days and good ones, through despair and through exhilaration, in love and out of love, for just now or for forever. Here we come. It’s our parade.
I remember thinking that I looked like the kind of person I would want to know if I just happened to meet myself.
Life is paper-thin and fragile. Any sudden change could rip it wide open.
I am not a darling. I am a girl ready to explode into nothing.