Bokelskere.no

Jeg tok hånda hans, og et sted i meg hadde jeg lyst til å si at jeg elsket ham, men jeg var ikke sikker på om jeg virkelig gjorde det. Hjertene våre var knust på de samme stedene. Det likner på kjærlighet, men er kanskje ikke selve kjærligheten.

Fottrinnene til moren min
Var så stille
At jeg knapt hørte henne dra

Jeg grubler på om jeg ødela alt. Men hvis jeg ikke hadde gjort det, ville jeg grublet på noe annet. Livet er en rekke valg mellom grublerier.

Mennesket kan gjøre hva det vil, men ikke gjøre noe med hva det vil.

Ingen sier noensinne hade, hvis de ikke vil treffe deg igjen.

The worst part of being truly alone is you think about all the times you wished that everyone would just leave you be. Then they do, and you are left being, and you turn out to be terrible company.

People always talk like there's a bright line between imagination and memory, but there isn't, at least not for me. I remember what I've imagined and imagine what I remember.

Our hearts were broken in the same places. That's something like love, but maybe not the quite the thing itself.

Every loss is unprecedented. You can't ever know someone else's hurt, not really - just like touching someone else's body isn't the same as having someone else's body.

I guess at some point, you realize whoever takes care of you is just a person, and that they have no superpowers and can't actually protect you from getting hurt.