Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.
How we need another soul to cling to.
Your room is not your prison. You are.
I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.
Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
Kiss me and you will see how important I am.
It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
I dream too much, work too little.
I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still
I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
O love, how did you get here?
That is salvation. To give of love inside. To keep love of life, no matter what, and give to others. Generously.
I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.