And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.
We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.
A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked.
It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.
We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.
I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.
Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together.