Or Is There No Such Thing As

What A Sad Story, I Thought For So Long. Not That I Now Think It Was Happy. But I Think It Is True, And Thus The Question Of Whether It Is Sad Or Happy Has No Meaning Whatever.

We Make Our Own Truths And Lies....truths Are Often Lies And Lies Truths.

It Is Hard For Me To Imagine That I Felt Good About Behaving Like That. I Also Remember That The Smallest Gesture Of Affection Would Bring A Lump To My Throat, Whether It Was Directed At Me Or At Someone Else. Sometimes All It Took Was A Scene In A Movie. This Juxtaposition Of Callousness And Extreme Sensitivity Seemed Suspicious Even To Me.

Why Does What Was Beautiful Shatter In Hindsight Because It Concealed Dark Truths?

Desires, Memories, Fears, Passions Form Labyrinths In Which We Lose And Find And Then Lose Ourselves Again.