I am beginning to measure myself in strength, not pounds. Sometimes in smiles.
Don't expect to make a difference unless you speak up for yourself.
You have to know what you stand for, not just what you stand against.
Write about the emotions you fear the most.
Censorship is the child of fear and the father of ignorance.
A scar is a sign of strength. . .the sign of a survivor.
You can tell a book is real when your heart beats faster. Real books make you sweat. Cry, if no one is looking. Real books help you make sense of your crazy life. Real books tell it true, don't hold back and make you stronger. But most of all, real books give you hope. Because it's not always going to be like this and books-the good ones, the ones-show you how to make it better. Now.
When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time.
Who cares what the color means? How do you know what he meant to say? I mean, did he leave another book called "Symbolism in My Books?" If he didn't, then you could just be making all of this up. Does anyone really think this guy sat down and stuck all kinds of hidden meanings into his story? It's just a story.... But I think you are making all of this symbolism stuff up. I don't believe any of it.
I don't say anything and I feel awful. I tell somebody and I feel worse. I'm having trouble finding a middle ground.
I wonder how long it would take for anyone to notice if I just stopped talking.
You were born with the seeds of your talent, the ability to observe the world around you and weave piece of it into a story. I believe that most -- if not all -- people are born with these seeds. What separates the writers from the non-writers is that the writers actually sit down and, you know... write.
I nod like I’m listening,like we’re communicating, and she never knows the difference.
Can the plural possessive express the feelings in your heart? If you don't learn art now, you will never learn to breathe!
Each reader has to find her or his own message within a book.
It doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts except the small smiles and blushes that flash across the room like tiny sparrows.
There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore.
I have survived. I am here. Confused, screwed up, but here. So, how can I find my way? Is there a chain saw of the soul, an ax I can take to my memories or fears?
I need a new friend. I need a friend, period. Not a true friend, nothing close or share clothes or sleepover giggle giggle yak yak. Just a pseudo-friend, disposable friend. Friend as accessory. Just so I don't feel or look so stupid.
IT happened. There is no avoiding it, no forgetting. No running away, or flying, or burying, or hiding.
I know my head isn't screwed on straight. I want to leave, transfer, warp myself to another galaxy. I want to confess everything, hand over the guilt and mistake and anger to someone else. There is a beast in my gut, I can hear it scraping away at the inside of my ribs. Even if I dump the memory, it will stay with me, staining me. My closest is a good thing, a quiet place that helps me hold these thoughts inside my head where no one can hear them.
I don't just use yarn from a store. I buy old sweaters from consignment shops. The older the better, and unravel them. There are countries of women in this scarf/shawl/blanket. Soon it will be big enough to keep me warm.
Can't escape pain, kiddo. Battle through it and you get stronger.
I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind. Did he rape my head, too?
Mr. Freeman sighs. "No imagination. What are you thirteen? Fourteen? You've already let them beat your creativity out of you!
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