It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.
The one you love and the one who loves you are never, ever the same person.
All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring.
We all die. The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.
It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.
What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction.
Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I've ever known.
I don't want to die without any scars.
The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.
This is your life and its ending one moment at a time.
The unreal is more powerful than the real. Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. Because its only intangible ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well, they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on. If you can change the way people think. The way they see themselves. The way they see the world. You can change the way people live their lives. That's the only lasting thing you can create.
You realize that our mistrust of the future makes it hard to give up the past.
You are not your job, you're not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis. You are all singing, all dancing crap of the world.
You know how they say you only hurt the ones you love? Well, it works both ways.
No matter how careful you are, there's going to be the sense you missed something, the collapsed feeling under your skin that you didn't experience it all. There's that fallen heart feeling that you rushed right through the moments where you should've been paying attention. Well, get used to that feeling. That's how your whole life will feel some day. This is all practice.
When we don't know who to hate, we hate ourselves.
You are not special. You're not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We're all part of the same compost heap. We're all singing, all dancing crap of the world.
If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character...Would you slow down? Or speed up?
The things you used to own, now they own you.
Today is the sort of day where the sun only comes up to humiliate you.