People die, I think, but your relationship with them doesn’t. It continues and is ever-changing.
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?
That’s a misconception, Lennie. The sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet.
Being with boys is more dangerous for me than killing a cricket or having a bird fly into the house.
I have to go,” I say, helpless.What makes you say the opposite of what every cell in your body wants you to say?
it’s okay to be addicted to beauty,” Mom says, all dreamy. “Emerson said ‘beauty is God’s handwriting.
Mom has a massive sunflower for a soul so big there’s hardly any room in her for organs.
The worst thing that could ever happen to Noah has happened. He’s become normal.
SELF PORTRAIT: Throwing Armfuls of Air into the Air
And I see that his brown eye has a splash of green in it and the green one a splash of brown. Like Cezanne painted them. Impressionist eyes.
Nor that he’s regarding my face with the same intensity I am his. We’re two paintings staring at each other across a room.
Are you an artist?””I’m a mess is what I am,” he says, holding on to the building for support. “A bloody mess. You ‘re the artist, mate.” Then he’s gone.
Good. That is it. You will see with your hands, I promise you.
For the sun, stars, oceans, and all the trees, I’ll consider it.
The sky’s gone blue: azure, the ocean bluer: cerulean, the trees are swirls of every hella freaking green on earth and bright thick eggy yellow is spilling over everything.
Because how could he have done this?How could he have chosen to leave me here all alone?
How could a mother who boils water for pasta leave two little girls behind?
Mom has a massive sunflower for a soul so big there’s hardly any room in her for organs. Jude and me have one soul between us that we have to share: a tree with its leaves on fire. And Dad has a plate of maggots for his.
She’s a people-mechanic and always knows when I’m malfunctioning.
Reality is crushing. The world is a wrong-sized shoe. How can anyone stand it?
What if I’m in charge of my own damn light switch?
I do not want to eat or drink, or i will lose the taste of you in my mouth
There are people everywhere standing in line at the movies, buying curtains, walking dogs, while inside, their hearts are ripping to shreds.
When I wear her clothes, I just feel safer, like she’s whispering in my ear.
Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.
That’s just how it is. Grief and love are conjoined, you don’t get one without the other.
I don’t believe time heals. I don’t want it to. If I heal, doesn’t that mean I’ve accepted the world without her?
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.
I don’t know how this can be but it can: A painting is both exactly rhe same and entirely different every single time you look at it.
Maybe a person is just made up of a lot of people,” I say. “Maybe we’re accumulating these new selves all the time.
Let me just unsubscribe to my own mind already, because I don’t get any of it.
I look into his sorrowless eyes and a door in my heart blows open. And when we kiss, i see that on the other side of that door is sky.
Me would like an invisibility cloak to get the hell out of this mess.
I’m thinking the reason I’ve been so quiet all those years is only because Brian wasn’t around yet for me to tell everything to.
In photographs of us together, she is always looking at the camera, and I am always looking at her.
Love does as it undoes. It goes after with equal tenacity: joy and heartbreak. Her happiness was his unhappiness and that’s the unfair way it was.
They do make love stories for girls with black hearts after all. They go like this.
You can tell your story any way you damn well please.Its your solo.
The sky’s always falling. Always. You’ll see. People have no idea.
This is how he came out: he floated into the air high above the sleeping forest, his green hat spinning a few feet above his head. In his hand was the open suitcase and out of it spilled a whole sky of stars.
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.
I tell you not to be timid. I tell you to make the choices, make the mistakes, big, terrible, reckless mistakes, really screw it all up. I tell you it is the only way.
The eye-roll is a 10.5 on the Ritcher. The Big One. California has slipped into the ocean.
Maybe what my sister wanted was to stay here and get married and have a family.Maybe that was her color of extraordinary.
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.
You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles.
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 smell of jasmine makes people tell their secrets
She’s a sun-kissed beach girl who goes gothgrungepunkhippierockeremocoremetalfreakfashionistabraingeekboycrazyhiphoprastagirl to keep it under wraps.
You are remaking the world, Noah. Drawing by drawing
And even as I’m kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, I wish I were kissing him, wanting more, more, more, more, like I can’t get enough, never will be able to get enough.
Isn’t that what I always think when I get The Poor Motherless Girl Look? Like I’ve been shoved out of the airplane without a parachute because mothers are the parachutes.
It’s like having explosives on board 24/7, the way I feel. I can’t believe when I touch things they don’t blow to bits. I can’t believe I was so way off.I thought, I don’t know, I thought wrong.
The guy’s life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?