If someone was what they looked like then how empty some of us would be... there's no depth to some people, no matter how hard they try to hide it, it eventually comes out.
The older I get the less I care what I look like. There's a sort of acceptance that comes over you and you don't fight it as much. Who are you trying to impress anyway?
I proabably shouldn't write things that I would be embarrassed to show my mother, but I do anyway. There are some things a mother just doesn't understand.
And I've been hungry for Rilke. Hungry for loving the questions themselves. But I'm not sure what that means. Maybe it only means that the answers come when you no longer care about them. Maybe you should just enjoy the fact that you're asking anything at all... since so many people seem dead inside...
I do crossword puzzles with a pen...
"Telling stories is not about the words you say. When you have a story inside you and an open heart, you become a conduit- the story flows through you. The words are merely commentary." Joel ben Izzy
Amen to that.