Thoughts race, as if, in a mind devoid of memory, each idea has too much space to grow and move, to collide with others in a shower of sparks before spinning off into its own distance.

I am an adult, but a damaged one.

Work. Write. Read. Keep putting words on the page, because that's the only way you'll get better.

‎"Is it possible to both want and not want something at the same time? For desire to ride with fear?

I cannot imagine how I will cope when I discover that my life is behind me, has already happened, and I have nothing to show for it. No treasure house of collection, no wealth of experience, no accumulated wisdom to pass on. What are we, if not an accumulation of our memories?

I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd fought for you. I was weak and stupid.

I closed my eyes and abandoned myself to my grief. It felt better, somehow, to be helpless. I didn't feel ashamed.