It is an awful thing to be betrayed by your body. And it’s lonely, because you feel you can’t talk about it.
It's like you're a character in this book that everyone around you is writing, and suddenly you have to say, 'I'm sorry, but this role isn't right for me'. And you have to start writing your own life and doing your own thing.
My lines all curve. I tend to connect the wrong dots.
Yes, time can be buoyed by wordlessness, but it needs to be anchored in words.
We all contain mysteries, especially when seen from the inside.
I had made it somewhere special, and I'd gotten there all on my own. Nobody had given it to me. Nobody had told me to do it. I'd climbed and climbed and climbed, and this was my reward. To watch over the world, and to be alone with myself. That, I found, was what I needed.