In my mind, there are two kinds of looking. There’s the kind of looking that is respectful, almost magical, where you observe something without daring to touch it. And then there’s the kind of looking that’s like slurping a Coke.
It’s only a game if there is an absence of meaning. And we’ve already gone too far for that.
Every time you love someone, you put not just your faith in them, but your faith in everything to the test.
How do you commemorate a year? A paper anniversary, but we are the words written down, not the paper.
I’ve worn black today, because I’ve heard so often that it’s supposed to be slimming. But instead I am this sphere of darkness submarining through the halls.
If you want to live within the definition of your own truth, you have to choose to go through the initially painful and ultimately comforting process of finding it.
Honestly, I’m just trying to live day to day.
And If only I could, I’d make a deal with God...
Self-preservation isn’t worth it if you can’t live with the self you’re preserving.
These teenager looks aren’t going to last forever, and that there are much better foundation to build a life upon than how attractive you are.
For whatever reason, we like to focus on the 2 percent that’s different, and most of the conflict in the world comes from that.
I notice you, I want to say. Even when no one else does, I do. I will.
I can flirt with the best of them, but only when it doesn’t matter.
You make it a production. Slam doors. Knock things over. Scream. But I just leave. Even if I’m still standing there, I leave. I am refusing you. I am denying you. I am an adjective that is quickly turning into a noun.
The older I get, the more I lose my ability to breathe.
I feel such a tenderness for these vulnerable nighttime conversations, the way words take a different shape in the air when there’s no light in the room.
I am learning that a life isn’t real unless someone else knows its reality. And I want my life to be real.
Every you, every me. Fractals. Fractures.
Your life is inescapable. Unless you decide to escape it.
I have no more idea now of who I am than I did before. But at least I know that. And I’m starting to figure out who I want to be.
It’s as simple as that. Simple and complicated, as most true things are.