Dawn

How is it possible? To have lived for so long, and yet, to have not lived at all.

When you're a child you think that the world is perfect. Mom and dad know everything. Mom and dad love you and mom and dad love each other. Your world is a perfect sphere of glass. When you get older you know that the world is imperfect. Mom and dad do not know everything. Not enough, at least, to fix the cracks in the glass.

Flight

Bittersweet

I don't like talking much. I find it to be a waste of presence. It's much simpler to listen, and watch. Wait for that very moment when your words will make the biggest difference then speak. You'll find that the silence before the sound will make your thoughts even louder, and for everyone to listen harder.

There were so many things I wanted to say, and all I had left was a single breath. How could I convey my entire life in the span of a second? So I said nothing. I clutched his hand and knew he understood.

And in the end, he was just a person.

She looked into his eyes and thought, almost carelessly, that this must be what it felt like to be willing to have such an irrevocable belief in another that you are willing to spend your entire life loving them.

Being an artist is a risky profession. You're walking an extremely thin tightrope, hanging onto something that is often not tangible. Something that only exists in your mind. Being an artist verges on a suicidal endeavour because all you can hang onto is inspiration, and the moment you've run out, exhausted all your resources you feel yourself tip, and before you can blink you're falling.

I am a person with many faces. A face for school, for home, for the rest of the world. And it is only when the places conflict do I find myself wondering why I cannot just be one face. A single face, a single personality. So maybe those who hate me will hate all of me, but those who love me, will love all of me

The difference between a child and an adolescent is their pride. And the difference between an adolescent and an adult is their humility.

It turns out that you never stop getting hurt. The same words can be flung out you millions of time, and they never hurt any less. You just get better at hiding your tears.

Writing is like sinking in quicksand. At the beginning you don't even realized you've stumbled into it, and then slowly but surely you realize your sinking. At first you struggle with a fierce kind of fire. It almost becomes an obsessive yearning, you're sure one day your words will reach the eyes of another. But slowly, as time passes, you continue to sink, and you think that no one is going to come along and pass you a branch. You'll write meaningless words because no one wants to read it. You'll falter, and then at that very moment the sand will begin to eat you up, but some part of you continues, that fire that caused you to struggle in the beginning still has a few embers. And then when even that begins to burn out, a branch will appear. Just one, but that's enough, and slowly but surely it'll yank you out of the sand. And for a while you're free before you stumble right back into it.