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In the Venn diagram of my life, my imagined personality and my real personality have never converged.
One of the worst parts about someone dying is thinking back to all those times you didn’t ask the right questions, all those times you stupidly assumed you’d have all the time in the world. And this too: how all that time feels like not much time at all. What’s left feels like something manufactured. The overexposed ghosts of memories.
Perfect days are for people with small, realizable dreams. Or maybe for all of us, they just happen in retrospect; they’re only now perfect because they contain something irrevocably and irretrievably lost.
Everything passes, Jessie. Remember that. What feels huge today will feel small tomorrow,
Not knowing the right thing to do is not an excuse for not doing anything.
No, the truth is I don’t want to be anywhere at all, because wherever I go, I still come with me. I’m stuck in this brain, in this body, in this ugly swamp of humanness.
