I don’t know what’s worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you’ve always wanted to be, and feel alone.
that if i
myself i will not
stop pouring. (why do i fear
becoming a river. what mountain
gave me such shame.)
Literature is the art of discovering something extraordinary about ordinary people, and saying with ordinary words something extraordinary.
We all lie to ourselves to be happy.
Your mind has a way of not letting you forget things you wish you could. Especially with people. Like, you’ll always try your best to forget things that people say to you or about you, but you always remember. And you’ll try to forget things you’ve seen that no one should see, but you just can’t do it. And when you try to forget someone’s face, you can’t get it out of your head.
Where there’s life, death is inevitable. Dying’s easy; it’s living that’s hard. The harder it gets, the stronger the will to live. And the greater the fear of death, the greater the struggle to keep on living.