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So, you see. I have my own story, and increasingly in my old age it weighs on me. Now that every turn in the weather whistles an ache through my bones, I stir in bed and the memories rise out of me like a buzz of flies from a carcass. I crave to be rid of them, but find myself being careful, too, choosing which ones to let out into the light. I want you to find me innocent. As much as I've craved your lost, small body, I want you now to stop stroking my inner arms at night with your fingertips. Stop whispering. I'll live or die on the strength of your judgment, but first, let me say who I am.
Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible

I could never be one of those people who climb mountains recreationally; I'd be one of those clowns who dies halfway down Everest because I'd bring extra powdered cocoa instead of extra rope.
Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live

I'm just a fucked up girl looking for my own peace of mind.
Clem, from Eternal Sunshine

So perhaps we write toward what we will become from where we are.
May Sarton, Journal of Solitude

I can be strong and tender just like the ocean
Ellis, Tigers Above, Tigers Below

But she slipped herself into the sea
and swimming, naked, all the crystal, lovely,
dancing waves were hers and whispered,
"I am here, yes, I am always"
~ Jonatha Brooke, "Always" ~