I guess I should have reacted the way most of the other girls were, but I couldn’t get myself to react. I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.

To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.

I kept saying this is not a wound, this is a scar. This is not somebody who’s hurt, this is somebody who’s stopped feeling in order to never be hurt again.

We are living in a culture entirely hypnotized by the illusion of time, in which the so-called present moment is felt as nothing but an infinitesimal hairline between an all-powerfully causative past and an absorbingly important future. We have no present. Our consciousness is almost completely preoccupied with memory and expectation. We do not realize that there never was, is, nor will be any other experience than present experience. We are therefore out of touch with reality. We confuse the world as talked about, described, and measured with the world which actually is. We are sick with a fascination for the useful tools of names and numbers, of symbols, signs, conceptions and ideas.

It’s better to be alone than have somebody who is half there or doesn’t want to be there.

I remember awakening one morning and finding everything smeared with the color of forgotten love.