Was it possible to feel love with an empty mind? For if the mind was empty, then it was empty of love too.
It was all about eyes, the truth.
She told herself that life is short. This didn't mean that nothing mattered, only that when strange things happened there was often no turning back.
It's just that you reach a point where metaphors become indistinguishable from the things they represent. And the life you ought to be living is the one you are living. And it feels like being born
When you can stop you don't want to, and when you want to stop, you can't...
The wonder to me is not that she made it through at all but that she made it through so relatively intact, so vibrant. So free of bitterness and so empty of resentment.
Drought brings out the worst in us and it's easy to hate your fellow human beings.
What is love, in the beginning, if not this mapping out, this settling into the other's undulations?
The very concept of solid ground is a myth. The galaxy itself is adrift.
That's all that faith is, the knowledge that the greater thing is with you. That's all the faith you need. The knowledge that you are not the greater thing.
Imperceptibly, more time passes when I'm not remembering our every moment together, not recreating our every conversation, re-imagining our love-making. It is immeasurably sad.
I understand only that a vast void, an emptiness, is needing to be filled. O the things we grasp at.
I am so far removed, from everything, that I can’t even cry. There’s a chasm between me, where I am, and the world I am in. The world I move my feet through. The atmosphere I breathe is like golden sy...
When you think you are in love, you don't want to know about the things that could end it.
We are all, I realise, even as I write this, merely moving closer to our deaths. At the end of this sentence I am closer to mine than I was at the beginning. It's relentless. It's a savage thing. And...
It is so exquisitely funny and sad, the way we view each other; how very little, despite our best efforts, we communicate.
I can no longer cry. I groan a few times. Through the slits that are my eyes, I stare at my shoes, at the gray swirls of the concrete floor, at the bright orange lid of my syringe. And I realize—it’s...
In the presence of their love I sensed my lonliness, and I understood for a moment, clearly, that deep and basic human desire for companionship at depth.
I learnt too late that what is most important to us is always most precious at the moment it occurs, and it is precious in its absolute immediacy and not as some vague confirmation of future direction...
Not only good to be alive, but nice to come with a stranger. Intimacy? For now I want nothing of it. I am simply trying to emerge from the violent unnecessariness of death.