For each person there is a sentence—a series of words—which has the power to destroy them.

Isn’t it funny? I’m enjoying my hatred so much more than I ever enjoyed love. Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands. Love uses you, changes its mind. But hatred, now, that’s something you can use. Sculpt. Wield. It’s hard, or soft, however you need it. Love humiliates you, but hatred cradles you.

One year, you are perfectly comfortable in a crowd, on a train, swimming in the ocean, walking under an open sky. One scar later, everything about crowds, trains, oceans, or skies is forever changed.

This is why it hurts the way it hurts. You have too many words in your head. There are too many ways to describe the way you feel. You will never have the luxury of a dull ache. You must suffer through the intricacy of feeling too much.

You’re a waste. You hide behind your hair and you never go to parties. You have no friends and you have managed to fuck up just about everything, you can’t really cry because you know it is your fault but you have to for some reason, it’s an addiction to become this self-induced mess with bruises and cuts. You bite your nails and your lip and listen to sad music while watching every other human being living their life, fulfilling every part of it and you wonder why you are so depressed and miserable, it is because it is your fault. Stop trying to feel misunderstood and just realize no one cares, you shouldn’t either.

Why can’t you be decent to people?” she asked.
“Fear,” I said.

I finally figured out that I’m solitary by nature, but at the same time I know so many people; so many people think they own a piece of me. They shift and move under my skin, like a parade of memories that simply won’t go away. It doesn’t matter where I am, or how alone - I always have such a crowded head.

Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.