I’m in love with this sentence:
“The degree to which a person can grow is directly proportional to the amount of truth he can accept about himself without running away.”
The kindest thing literature does is remind you that your peculiar little feelings have always existed. Someone, in some century, was equally confused by love, bored by society, tired of performing, and hungry for meaning.
i am begging some of you to become ok with hearing not-so-great-things about yourself. especially if it is coming from a loved one that historically respects your agency. chances are you unknowingly crossed a boundary & someone is trying to tell you in a respectful way.