I'm falling in love. I am in love. And it's not with Xander, though I do love him. I'm sure of that, as sure as I am of the fact what I feel for Ky is something different.

I'm just a butterfly, a mourning cloak, sealed inside a cocoon with blnd eyes and stiky wings. And suddenly I wonder if the cocoons sometimes do not open, if the butterfly inside is ever simply not strong enough to break through.

I wonder if I will ever have the strength to hold onto something. Or if I will always be someone who destroys.

I think of how perhaps the best way to fly would be with hands full of earth, so you always remember where you came from.

We could have been happy. I know that, and it is perhaps the hardest thing to know.

It's not knowing how to write that makes you interesting, it's what you write.

Why are some things easier to write than say?