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Kindle Notes & Highlights
A recipe for disaster doesn’t require that many ingredients. An unhealthy amount of wishful thinking, mixed with a large dollop of devil-may-care when it comes to reading maps.
Add a sprinkle of desperation distilled from wanting so badly for things to change, and you had the perfect recipe for my current situation – barricaded inside a toilet cubicle at the Gare du Nord with only my shame and embarrassment for company.
But there are some promises you can’t keep, no matter how hard you try.
Maybe it wasn’t about dreams coming true (although that would be nice). Maybe
it was about becoming the kind of person who chases them, regardless.
I assured myself that great things start with small beginnings.
That’s what happens when you are out of your comfort zone – time stretches like an elastic band, prolonging your discomfort and unease, accentuating your isolation.
Offering food, it seemed, held a kind of magical power to elevate people out of the ordinary and into the realm of contentment, even bliss.
He kissed me softly and deeply, the warmth of his breath on my skin intoxicating. It was the most beautiful feeling of complete abandonment, and I did not want it to end.
I looked up at his face, but he wore that same mask we all did, those who are left behind, trying to carry on. The club no one wants to be a member of.
‘Telling someone you have an incurable disease is a surefire way of separating the men from the boys,’
I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and so effectively lost to us until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison. Then they start and tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we have recognised their voice the spell is broken. We have delivered them: they have overcome death and return to share our life.
