My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.

I want to force myself again and again to leave the warmth and security of static situations and move into the world of growth and suffering where the real books are people's minds and souls.

Talking about my fears to others feeds it.

My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. At times like this I'd call myself a fool to ask for more.

Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.