I'm in self-imposed exile, cradled between split branches, in my favorite tree in the woods behind school. I've been coming here every day at lunch, hiding out until the bell rings, whittling words into the branches with my pen, allowing my heart to ...
Sadness pulses out of us as we walk. I almost expect the trees to lower their branches when we pass, the stars to hand down some light. I breathe in the horsy scent of eucalyptus, the thick sugary pine, aware of each breath I take, how each one keeps...
As I walk through the redwood trees, my sneakers sopping up days of rain, I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes, when grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.
Qué más da cómo lo llamen los demás —dice—. Esta es nuestra historia y la contamos como queremos. Es nuestra historia y la contamos como queremos. Se diría que con todo lo que leo esto se me debería haber ocurrido antes, pero no se me habí...
That's a misconception, Lennie. The sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet.
Remember how it was when we kissed? Armfuls and armfuls of light thrown right at us. A rope dropping down from the sky. How can the word love and the word life even fit in the mouth?
Life's a freaking mess. In fact, I'm going to tell Sarah we need to start a new philosophical movement: messessentialism instead of existentialism: For those who revel in the essential mess that is life. Because Gram's right, there's not one truth ev...
This is our story to tell. You’d think for all the reading I do, I would have thought about this before, but I haven’t. I’ve never once thought about the interpretative, the story telling aspect of life, of my life. I always felt like I was in ...
Maybe what my sister wanted was to stay here and get married and have a family. Maybe that was her color of extraordinary.
I know the expression love bloomed is metaphorical, but in my heart in this moment, there is one badass flower, captured in time-lapse photography, going from bud to wild radiant blossom in ten seconds flat.
The. World. Is. Not. A. Safe. Place.
You can tell your story any way you damn well please. Its your solo.
And it's just dawned on me that I might be the author of my own story, but so is everyone else the author of their own stories, and sometimes, like now, there's no overlap.
¿Cómo es posible que algo pueda parecer una idea tan brillante un día y una estupidez al siguiente?
The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?
I have an impulse to write all over the orange walls- I need an alphabet of endings ripped out of books, of hands pulled off of clocks, of cold stones, of shoes filled with nothing but wind.
