“I’m not really sure which parts of myself are real and which parts are things I’ve gotten from books.”

I guess I’ll never measure up to anyone’s expectations. I surely don’t measure up to what I’d like to be.

I bet the pill is harder to get than drugs–which shows how screwed up this world really is!

How can thoughts hurt so much when they aren’t even physical?

I really am only one infinitely small part of an aching humanity.

They have accepted me as an individual, as a personality, as an entity. I belong! I am important! I am somebody!

I can’t believe that I changed so little. I expected to look old and hollow and gray, but I guess it’s only me on the inside that has shriveled and deteriorated.

Nobody’s talking to me, but nobody’s hassling me either. I guess you can’t have everything.

The voice of every kid hooked on drugs, alcohol or the occult joins the sad chorus “Not me! I didn’t think it could ever happen to me. I was sure I could handle it.

She didn’t know whether she was running away from something or running to something, but she admitted that deep in her heart she wanted to go home.

Sometimes fantasies are better than life.

Maybe the new me will be different.

I pretend I’ve got lots of confidence and I’m a big jock and like that but deep inside I’m a frightened, insecure, can’t-make-it failure.

Why is life so difficult? Why can’t we be just ourselves and have everyone accept us the way we are?

My biggest mistake: not wanting to help myself into thinking I am happy, that change would come about without really trying to change, or wanting to change. Procrastinating about changing. I do want to change.

How is it possible for me to be so miserable and embarrassed and humiliated and beaten an function still talk and smile and concentrate?

It’s a good thing most people bleed on the inside or this would be a gory, blood-smeared earth.

I have danced, sung, been a part of a reality show, and the outcome is that I am a part of ‘Batla House’ and ‘Bharat,’ which is a milestone.

I hate the business part of music. Music is just like the streets. There’s loyal and disloyal people, people saying one thing and then don’t do it.

The process is the most beautiful part.

The tongue is the vile slave’s vilest part.

For my part, I think that to a man of spirit there is no other aim and end of his labours except the labours themselves.

You do not owe your trauma to people to prove that you are worthy of being a part of their life.

There are so many beautiful parts of me but your eyes were too out of focus to notice.

I can feel you in every part of my body. I do not know how you do it, that you still linger deep inside of my veins bones DNA without even being beside me. But you do and I love that.