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We all medicate with something.
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
Birds are the only things that grow wings. We’re just left to muck through the mire like a bunch of emotional cave men.”
Love is cocaine.
“Humans weren’t made to carry someone else’s weight. We can barely lift our own.”
“Maybe lifting someone else’s weight makes yours a little more bearable,” he says.
“Because simplicity speaks the loudest.”
“You need simplicity to create complexity,”
Maybe a person could only deal with one dose of mental atrophy at a time.
And I’d rather not be looked at if all people are seeing are the things I do, or the things that happen to me instead of who I am.”
“If there was a God,” I said, “I’d say with confidence that he hates me. Because my life is the sum of bad things. The more people you let in, the more bad you let in.”
“It’s your darkness that pulls me in. Your mud vein. But sometimes having a mud vein will kill you.”
People lie. They use you and they lie, all the while feeding you bullshit about being loyal and never leaving you. No one can make that promise, because life is all about seasons, and seasons change.
I froze when I saw him, felt a feeling only drugs can give you.
When you spend extraordinary amounts of time pushing someone away, their reaction to your apology tends to be slow.
Sow sadness, reap tears, my mother used to say.
“What’s the difference?” I asked him. “Between the love of your life, and your soulmate?” “One is a choice, and one is not.”
Heart pain and physical pain are only comparable in that neither relinquish their hold on you once they get rolling.
It’s good to have something to do, to keep you from waltzing down crazy street—not that we haven’t already been there. It’s a street you only want to visit a couple times in your life.
Love comes slow, but God does it go fast. He was beautiful—then he was ugly. I esteemed him, then I esteemed him not.
He failed me. Love sticks, and it stays and it braves the bullshit.
Voices have been, and always will be, too afraid to speak with as much volume as a book. That’s why writers write—to say things loudly with ink. To give feet to thoughts; to make quiet, still feelings loudly heard.
As far as I was concerned children had bipolar disorder. They were angry, unpredictable, emotional ambulance-sirens with pigtails, grubby hands and food-crusted mouths that twisted from smiles to frowns and back again as quick as a breath. No, thank you very much. If I wanted a three-foot warlord as my master, I’d hire a rabid monkey to do the job.
It’s a painful thing to look inside yourself and see the whys and the hows of your clockwork. You are a lot uglier than you think, plenty more selfish than you are ever likely to admit. So, you ignore what’s inside of you. Thinking if you don’t acknowledge it, it’s not really there. Until someone unlikely comes along and cracks you. They see every dark corner, and they get it. And they tell you it’s okay to have dark corners, instead of making you feel ashamed of them.
“Charm is clothed in narcissism, you know that?
Love doesn’t leave. It bears all things.
