We are not defined by our species any more than our nationality or our gender. What we do, our choices, that’s what defines us.
Fear makes us stronger, puts us on our toes. We’ve got to embrace it.
I turn back to the lake, stare at the ice slowly moving on the surface of the water. Pieces of the solid fall into the liquid, but it’s all just water no matter what its form.
We all live with our losses. We don’t want to, but we can.
The ending has to fit. The ending has to matter, and make sense. I could care less about whether it’s happy or sad or atomic. The ending is the place where you go, “Aha. Of course. That’s right.”
It’s a lot easier to understand things once you name them. It’s the unknown that mostly freaks me out. I don’t know the name of that fear, but I know I’ve got it, the fear of the unknown.
That’s what people who love you do: they hold you and lie. They tell you that you’re worthy, that everything will be all right, and they do that even when you both know without a doubt that this is not true, that is it nowhere near the truth.
Sometimes that whys aren’t knowable, so you just have to ignore the whys, and just focus on what is and move on.
We all have to feel empty sometimes.
Why are there no names for the abscence of things? Why is there no name for the abscence of humanity?
There is something about libraries, old libraries, that makes them seem almost sacred. There’s a smell of paper and must and binding stuff. It’s like all the books are fighting against decay, against turning into dust, and at the same time fighting for attention.
Emotions are real, just not the reasons behind them.
A cheerleader? Do I look like a guy who’d be interested in talking to a cheerleader?
I just think about how saying that you love someone can make your heart feel like some sort of brownie sundae, warm, gooey, sweet and good.
What I have learned lately is that people deal with death in all sorts of ways. Some of us fight against it, doing everything we can to make it not true. Some of us lose our selves to grief. Some of us lose ourselves to anger.
It is love which made all this. War which protects it. With love comes responsibility and possibility, fear and hopes, quests and suffering.
Friends help friends fight pixies.
What feels best is how I no longer hurt.
Is everyone as wrong about me as I am about them?
I used to be embarrassed by my mom, but now I know what she is-she’s a hero.
What we do, our choices, that’s what defines us.