Isn't it funny how the memories you cherish before a breakup can become your worst enemies afterwards? The thoughts you loved to think about, the memories you wanted to hold up to the light and view from every angle--it suddenly seems a lot safer to lock them in a box, far from the light of day and throw away the key. It's not an act of bitterness. It's an act if self-preservation. It's not always a bad idea to stay behind the window and look out at life instead, is it?
Cassia.I know which life is my real one now, no matter what happens. It’s the one with you. For some reason, knowing that even one person knows my story makes things different. Maybe it’s like the poem says. Maybe this is my way of not going gentle.I love you. (Ky Markham)
Everyone has something of beauty about them. But loving lets you look, and look, and look again. You notice the back of a hand, the turn of a head, the way of a walk. When you first love, you look blind and you see it all as the glorious, beloved whole, or a beautiful sum of beautiful parts. But when you see the one you love as pieces, as why's, you can love those parts too, and it's a love at once more complicated and more complete.
That’s how I know they are dreams. Because the simple and plain and everyday things are the ones that we can never have. (Cassia Reyes)
And I'll tell her that I don't want my life to be samples and scraps. A taste of everything but a meal of nothing.
Writing, painting, singing- it cannot stop everything. Cannot halt death in its tracks. But perhaps it can make the pause between death’s footsteps sound and look and feel beautiful, can make the space of waiting a place where you can linger without as much fear. For we are all walking each other to our deaths, and the journey there between footsteps makes up our lives.
at first when the rain fell from the sky so wide and deepit smelled like sage, my favorite smellI went up on the plateau to watch it cometo see the gifts it always broughtbut this rain changed from blue to black and leftnothing.
Growing apart doesn't change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side, our roots will always be tangled. I'm glad for that.
He's in pain. I am, too. It strikes me that perhaps this is part of what we are fighting to choose. Which pain we feel.
But then I realize that even if I did have a soul, it’s not as though someone else would be there. It would only be more of me.
Ever since the day of the mistake with my Match. I've never known which life is my true one. Even with the reassurances of the Offical that day in the greenspace, I think a part of me hasn't felt at peace. It was as though I saw for the first time that life could branch into different paths, take different directions.
I want to reach out and grab his hand and hold it to me, right over my heart, right where it aches the most. I don't know if doing that would heal me or make my heart break entirely, but either way this constant hungry waiting would be over.
...I do not know how I can feel this much pain and survive, and at the same time know how much I have to live.
Some people think the stars must look closer from up here. They don't. When you're up here, you realize how distant they really are—how impossible to reach.
Some people think the stars must look closer from up here. They don't.When you're up here, you realize how distant they really are--how impossible to reach.
I wonder if I will ever have the strength to hold onto something. Or if I will always be someone who destroys.
She's right. We would compose poems about love and tell stories that have been heard in some form before. But it would be our first time feeling and telling.
Writing, painting, singing--it cannot stop everything. Cannot halt death in its tracks. But perhaps it can make the pause between death's footsteps sound and look and feel beautiful, can make the space of waiting a place where you can linger without as much fear. For we are all walking each other to our deaths, and the journey there between footsteps makes up our lives.
At first, that's who I was. I wanted to know more about this boy who lives among us, but who never truly speaks... But now I feel like finding out about him is one of the ways I found out about myself. I did not expect to love his words. I did no expect to find myself in the.
For we are all walking each other to our deaths, and the journey between footsteps makes up our lives
They both have in common their conviction that they are still learning, still growing, when in fact they have long ago lost that ability.
I can trust in my parents' love. And it strikes me that is a big thing to trust, a big thing to have had, no matter what else happens.
Sometimes you can't speak, not because others won't let you, but because you are afraid of what you'll say.
Because I feel no anger toward my mother. Only loss, and loss is a feeling you can’t fight your way out of as easily.
I draw in a ragged breath, the kind you take when the pain is too deep to cry, when you can't cry because all you are is pain, and if you let some of it out, you might cease to exist. I want to do something to make this better, even though I know that nothing can change the fact of my father gone and under ground.
Inside me are the real things that give me strength—my thoughts, the small stones of my own choosing. They tumble in my mind, some polished from frequent turning, some new and rough, some that cut.
The pain wants to eat me away. I wish I could have one without the other, but that's the problem with being alive. You don't usually get to choose the measure of suffering or the degree of joy you have.