• One desires to be nothing but dust if their body feels like lead. Or a grenade -- one wrong movement and everything sinks or goes up in flames: the routine, the workout, the Duolingo, the books, the journals, the blog... all of it.
  
  
• I thought I missed how dramatic I used to be... but now I see that I am just dramatic in a different way.
  
  
• Fear of carving my own path after a lifetime of being the “good student” who follows the rules. I tried to silence my anxiety of not belonging by compromising my first love—my dream of becoming a writer. But when I realized my soul was suffering, I knew I couldn’t give up.
  
  
• I have so much love, but never the right words to say. I have so much love that longs to be cherished and nurtured, yet no home to hold it. But my love is sacred—of my own making— and I don’t want to disappoint it. I deserve someone to show off my love to and to be seen simply for showing up as myself.
  
  
• I have too much love for this life to live without showing the world how much it continues to change me.
  
  
• Love like sitting on the edge of my bed: between comfort and suffering, dream and wake, the end of and end and the start of a beginning.
  
  
• If thinking is learning all over again how to see, what if my sight is once more obstructed from other ways of seeing? I want to see it all, but I fear that to remain in a perpetual state of unknowing is the very essence of being human.
  
  
• Sorry about that, it's also my first time experiencing myself.
  
  
• Sweating, burning my legs to reach another lesson, only for the universe to sneer, "You don’t know shit." Just to play another game where I never know the rules.
  
  
• It is well-documented that the human condition is to experience death in all areas of life, not just the physical. We are always forgetting—parts of our minds fading, fragments of memory dying with time. Once-burning flames of feeling now flicker dull, another quiet proof of this death. What an uncomfortable thought… that no matter how hard we try, there is no singular way to comprehend the mortality of death. After all, the same death that drives men to war, to repeat history’s wounds, to commit crimes in the absence of memory—is the same death that allows hope and love to bloom again after pain.
  
  
• I am water,
  but what I want is oil.
  If I stop moving,
  I fear we will only drift
  further apart.

2