our town is so many miles with nowhere to go. nowhere but the woods, where leaves block out the haze of the city blocking out the stars.
i light matches for candles for sitting in my room and wanting a flicker of life, a flicker of mood.
we talk about growing up, about college. jed talks about the foreseeable future and how little there is that we can foresee.
i could make a life out of this. i, who have never been prepared.
i realize i have already made a life out of this. i am capable of making a life.
there is negative noticing and there is positive noticing.
and i hate myself because i can't help caring, looking to see if they notice and what they think.
then he says i worry about you. and i tell him don't. and he says that's exactly why.
why don't they leave me alone? don't they realize i have a tinder heart and a paper body and that any spark will turn me straight to ash?
i score the silence. i tread through air. i feel gone. i feel like the shadow behind the shades.
and i stand there and i wonder what i am doing, i wonder what i should do, and i don't know i don't know i don't know what to do. i don't know whether to take, to hold, to stay, to walk away, and i think that is it—that is everything.
all the feelings are dead inside me and i want them to be alive.
I had to wait some time for something more real.
I see the hurt. I see the mark. I see the signs. There's nothing I can do.
I've lost track of where friendship ends and falling begins. (this is the foolish refrain of the hopelessly devoted.)
teenagers are never joking, when seeking to prove a point, principals and teachers should remember that teenagers are never, ever sarcastic or ironic. if they say, "I wish someone would drop a bomb on this school right now," that means they have arranged for a nuclear arsenal to be emptied onto the school and should be immediately suspended and ridiculed.
if you look over his shoulder, you will see that everything he writes is always about you.
Did you see how lonely that girl looked at lunch? What we are saying is we did see. And what did we do? We acted blind, and we moved on.
when you break someone's heart, you also break your own.
but I have lived with myself for too many years. I know exactly how hard I am.
despite all the thoughts that run through your head, you're never really ready to let go, are you?
hours cannot measure what I feel. housed inside me like a caged tiger. how strange it feels to talk about it. how was I planning to get through this alone?
I do not cry. I have had enough of that. I speak these words as a way of controlling them instead of telling me everything is okay, instead of wallowing and saying life sucks.
realizing she is going to pretend I am not here reaping, rebuffing, redrawing, reflecting, regarding, regressing, rehearsing, reiterating, reliving, remembering, reopening, repaying, repealing, replying, retracing, returning, revoking.
right at this moment, I cannot imagine it being any worse. right here, I have been turned into nothing. Right now, I am negated.
the life you lead can be detoured. the moment you know cannot be taken back.
the opportunity has passed. the past is inopportune. the question all grow from why. the reality will always be contended. the sadness will ebb. the trouble is the time it might take. the ugly words cannot be erased, only discredited. the versions are never the same. the wonder is that we make it through. the x is the unknown variable. the yesterday cannot be repeated. the zenith is the point when you look down and realize you're no longer below.
he says, you'll get through this. you live each day one at a time. you live every day all at once. you live with the possibility of good-bye. you move on. you ponder in this darkness and see you're not alone. you realize you never felt alone. you subtracted one from your life, that's all.
your heart is not as broken as you think, he says. you're not as dumb as you look, I reply.
He wanted to be strong, because in this world you have to be.
She wasn't just lost in space. She was space itself. Waiting to disappear.
I felt alone again, with so many question and no one to ask. I found that with love, you need someone to talk to about it.
What's lonelier than being on a team where you no longer belong?
To get something, you must give something away. To hold something, you must give something away. To love something, you must give something away.
Instead of turning the page I just start writing on the desk. All that open surface. Right there. Nobody notices. Nobody cares. The words just start to fall there. And I feel some satisfaction from that. I've never written just for myself. And I've never written for anyone else. I write for the release of it. For finding out what will be there when I am done.
THERE IS NO MEASURE TO VOLATILITY. VOLATILITY. VOLATILITY. COMMISERATE WITH THE COMMON. COMMISERATE. YOU ARE UNABLE TO COMMISERATE. YOU ARE HAPPY EVEN IF YOU ARE AFRAID TO ADMIT IT. YOU ARE FOOLISH IN YOUR HAPPINESS. I KNOW THIS IS NOT A SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE THING TO DO. YOU ARE NOT WHAT YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE. YOU WEAR TOO MANY MASKS. PLEASE. PLEASE. YOU SHOULD NOT HIDE. GIVE HER A CHANCE. YOU SHOULD NOT WALK AWAY QUITE YET. PLEASE. PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANT. LIVE UP TO YOURSELF. COWARDICE. DESPAIR IS NOT THE ANSWER. YOU ARE IMPLICATED.
I write YOU ARE HAPPY EVEN IF YOU ARE AFRAID TO ADMIT IT. And it make sense. Because how many times have I heard everyone complaining and complaining and complaining? As if sitting back and acknowledging that things aren't all that bad is somehow wrong. Then I write YOU ARE FOOLISH IN YOUR HAPPINESS.
You were Alice, I was the Hatter. You were the sun, I wasn't even the moon.
I believe in having a code of ethics, and mine was basically: If you jerk me around, then I will jerk you right back, harder.
I tried to be a vigiliant person. Keeping watch, confronting people with the truth, even if it hurt them.
I felt foolish, yes. Foolish because I felt alone in this. How may times had I told someone The truth hurts. Without ever really knowing what it fell like.
Being a bitch is easy. It's finding the alternative that's hard.
I should talk to him. I know I should talk to him but I do not talk to him. I watch him afar and love him.
Here's what I know about the realm of possibility—it is always expanding, it is never what you think it is. Everything around us was once deemed impossible.
As hard as it is for us to see sometimes, we all exist within the realm of possibility. Most of the limits are for own world's devising. And yet, every day we each do so many things that we once impossible to us.
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P.S. If you wonder about the all up or low caps... Well, it is how the book is.
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