Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
I am myself. That is not enough.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I suppose I'll always be over-vulnerable, slightly paranoid.
Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.
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