you could be ordinary and attempt something extraordinary, without being able to explain it in a logical way.

If we can't accept what we don't know, there really is no hope.

The past was the past; there was no escaping your beginnings.

It was not a life, if lived without love.

And it can take a lifetime, a life of many years, to accept the incongruity of things: that a small moment can sit side by side with a big one, and become part of the same.

You got up, and you did something. And if trying to find a way when you don't even know you can get there isn't a small miracle; then I don't know what is.

People were buying milk, or filling their cars with petrol, or even posting letters. And what no one else knew was the appalling weight of the thing they were carrying inside. The superhuman effort it took sometimes to be normal, and a part of things that appeared both easy and everyday. The loneliness of that.