And Then I Woke Up

wasn’t the end of the world we had imagined; it wasn’t some magical utopia either, it was simply a place where life endured.

If you’re the sort of person who sees blood and monsters rather than somebody real? What does that say about us, I wonder? What does that say about me? Does it take a certain sort of mindset to succumb to that sort of narrative?

I read voraciously, because words on a page felt committed in a way words said out loud were not

Macey once told me the problem with the truth was that it was so poorly written. Given the choice, the pleasantly told lie is always more seductive

when you say you’re going to tell people a horror story, they sit up in their chairs defensively, waiting to see you fail. When you tell them it’s a love story, they relax, they open themselves wide

I found myself with him, but he wasn’t the flag on the horizon I steered toward. He wasn’t what I was looking for, he was someone I found on the way. And sometimes that’s enough. You find someone going the same direction as you are and it’s all the connection you need when the world had turned as much as it had.

Isn’t it beautiful how stories can work like that? The subtle way they help the teller, the subversive way they reach the listener, how they creep inside you like waking dreams.