How is it possible, I think, to change so much and not be able to change anything at all?
That's the thing about best friends. That's what they do. They keep you from spinning off the edge.
Who knows? Maybe they’re right. Maybe we are driven crazy by our feelings. Maybe love is a disease, and we would be better off without it. But we have chosen a different road. And in the end that is the point of escaping the cure: We are free to choose. We are even free to choose the wrong thing.
Hate isn’t the most dangerous thing, he’d said. Indifference is.
I don't know whether these feelings - this thing growing inside of me - is something horrible and sick or the best thing that's ever happened to me. Either way, I can't stop it. I've lost control. And the truly sick thing is that despite everything, I'm glad.
He who leaps for the sky may fall, it's true. But he may also fly.
How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust--and also to make you feel so whole?
I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together what was broken. It's hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight. It will build inside you like a stone.
Most people don't want to be saved. Besides, if you keep bailing everybody out, they'll never learn to paddle on their own.
Everyone just wasting time because they have so much of it to waste, minutes slipping by on who's with who and did you hear.
There are no happy endings, only breaks in the regular action.
And now I know why they invented words for love, why they had to: It's the only thing that can come close to describing what I feel in that moment, the baffling mixture of pain and pleasure and fear and joy, all running sharply through me at once.
You don't reach points in life at which everything is sorted out for us. I believe in endings that should suggest our stories always continue.
Each step is more difficult than the last; the heaviness fills me and turns my limbs to stone. You must hurt or be hurt.
I didn't realize then what a privilege that was: to be bored with your best friend; to have time to waste.
We can never understand. We can only try, fumbling our way through the tunneled places, reaching for light.
Through wind, and tempest, storm, and rain; The calm shall be buried inside of me; A warm stone, heavy and dry; The root, the source, a weapon against pain
Dystopian novels help people process their fears about what the future might look like; further, they usually show that there is always hope, even in the bleakest future.
Things would get difficult again. But that was okay too. The bravery was in moving forward, no matter what.
Of course. That's what people do in a disordered world, a world of freedom and choice: they leave when they want. They disappear, they come back, they leave again. And you are left to pick up the pieces on your own.
I wish I could close my eyes and be blown into dust and nothingness, feel all my thoughts disperse like dandelion fluff drifting off on the wind. But his hands keep pulling me back: into the alley, and Portland, and a world that has suddenly stopped making sense.
It's like a razor blade edging its way through my organs, shredding me, all I can think is: It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.
The devil stole into the Garden of Eden. He carried with him the disease - amor deliria nervosa - in the form of a seed. It grew and flowered into a magnificent apple tree, which bore apples as bright as blood. -From Genesis: A Complete History of the World and the Known Universe, by Steven Horace, PhD, Harvard University
I wonder if this is how people always get close: They heal each other's wounds; they repair the broken skin.
People need other people to feel things for them," she said. "It gets lonely to feel things all by yourself.
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