Hope was supposed to be a good thing, but it was starting to feel like every other four-letter word you’re not supposed to say.
She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order.
When you’re twenty-one, life is a roadmap. It’s only when you get to be twenty-five or so that you begin to suspect that you’ve been looking at the map upside down, and not until you’re forty are you entirely sure. By the time you’re sixty, take it from me, you’re fucking lost.
I feel like I’m a snow globe and someone shook me up and now every little piece of me is falling back randomly and nothing is ending up where it used to be.
“But isn’t it better to be honest about these things before someone else can use them against you? Before someone else can break your heart? Isn’t it better to break it yourself? I thought honesty made people strong.-Isla”
― Stephanie Perkins, Isla and the Happily Ever After
“What a terrible mistake to let go of something wonderful for something real.”
— Miranda July, No One Belongs Here More Than You