“If you’ve ever climbed mountains, in the most intense storms. And all they ever did was walk up a hill on a clear day for you, you have so much love in you. Never settle for the hill for someday, someone will be at the top of the mountain.”

If there’s no struggle, you haven’t struggled yet.

For being still can either bring one clarity or chaos. You decide what the silence is worth.

I no longer seek the love I think I deserve but rather the love I’ve always deserved.

I love the little things in life but when it comes to me, why do I find those little things about myself hard to love? I am everything I need.

I was in love with my own chaos, gripping tightly onto fantasies, falling into traps that swallowed me whole. I am in awe of how chaotic I am, as falling hard into my own trap saved me from who I became.

Are you only surrounding yourself with people because they add to your life or are you filling a void?

The beauty in the suffering is not the lack of love they have, it’s the depth of love they swam into that drowned them among their highest waters.

We start looking for approval from strangers when we feel we can’t approve of ourselves.

We are perfectly imperfect human beings.

If I were a garden and the seed were my soul, thus blooming is a process but I’m impatient.

You can’t appreciate the sunshine if you’ve never stood in the rain.

The wind tickles my skin trees bend back and forth sunlight kisses the earth and yet with no sound at all, I hear everything. I am peace.

People who do not make room to love you, simply do not make room to love themselves.

The lava that erupts from the volcanoes has been reoccurring for far too long and even tho I’ve been warned that my lava can burn others I can’t help but erupt at the possibility that someone will want to burn for me.

It’s okay to water your own plants. Expecting the rain to come when your plants haven’t fully grown, will stall your blooming. Don’t wait for others.

Every day is an up and down spiral I have become a hurricane coming in with no warning ceasing to understand where my destruction has come from at all.

September 2001. A sunny day in New York. Many of us who are writers were at work on the transformation of life into a poem, story, a chapter of a novel, when terror pounced from the sky, and the world made witness to it.

We are the most focused company that I know of or have read of or have any knowledge of. We say no to good ideas every day.

Three hours a day will produce as much as a man ought to write.

And then you walk into a room one day, whether it’s at university or an office or some kind of club, and you just go, ‘Ah. There they are.’ And suddenly you feel at home.

I play the piano passionately and inaccurately. Indeed, I worked out the other day that of my seventy-five years; I have spent at least one year sitting on a piano stool.

Curse us eh/I’ll make you pay!/I don’t want to rhyme all day!

Colombia is not how people think it is. We used to eat fish every Sunday at the beach. In the town where I grew up, people did not tell lies.

Most days now his loss is a part of her, an awkward weight she carries around, invisible to everyone else, subtly altering the way she moves through the day. But today, the Anniversary of the day he died, is a day when all bets are off.