Some people are artists. Some, themselves, are art.
Spend your free time the way you like, not the way you think you’re supposed to. Stay home on New Year’s Eve if that’s what makes you happy. Skip the committee meeting. Cross the street to avoid making aimless chitchat with random acquaintances. Read. Cook. Run. Write a story.
For lonely people, rain is a chance to be touched.
How can I accept a limited definable self, when I feel, in me, all possibilities?
You have played,
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
So am I.
Your body is the house you grew up in. How dare you try to burn it to the ground.