Like most, I was a mix of good and bad, anger and protectiveness, kindness and pride. But right now, I had only strangled fear and the promise of revenge.

People grew lazy. They knew too many blessings, and so lost the ability to appreciate what they had

I imagine the ones we’ve lost as ghosts who prowl about the edges of the light, waiting for us to join them. Sometimes that’s terrifying, and sometimes it’s reassuring, a promise of homecoming.

Sometimes I miss the old me.

I’m sick of asking questions everyone else already knows the answers to.

I think my head's a minefield strewn with triggers, and maybe if I survive each explosion, what emerges from the wreckage will be me, really, truly me.

Because it takes more courage to heal the world's hurts than to inflict them.