I was once told by someone wise that writing is perilous as you cannot always guarantee your words will be read in the spirit in which they were written.

I was once told by someone wise that writing is perilous as you cannot always guarantee your words will be read in the spirit in which they were written.

"What if I like watching television? What if I don't want to do much else other than read a book?"... "What if I'm tired when I get home? What if I don't fill my days with frenetic activity?" "But one day you might wish you had."

There are normal hours, and then there are invalid hours, where time stalls and slips, where life---real life---seems to exist at one remove.

All that counts is the truth. Without it you're basically just juggling people's daft ideas.

"You cut yourself off from all sorts of experiences because you tell yourself you are 'not that sort of person'" "But, I’m not." "How do you know? You’ve done nothing, been nowhere. How do you have the faintest idea what kind of person you are?"

Somewhere in this world is a man who loves you, who understands how precious and clever and kind you are. A man who has always loved you and, to his detriment, suspects he always will.