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If you want to be alive, you can’t avoid pain.
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One of my roommates, Rafael, he's an expert on monsters. Not that he talks about them. I can just tell. People who have monsters recognize each other. They know each other without even saying a word.
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I do not know what it means to be okay. I have never known and maybe I will never know. Okay is just a word I use so I won't have to talk about what's inside. Okay is a word that means I am going to keep my secrets.
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But there she was, sobbing for Yolie, and he wondered why some people stayed soft no matter what happened to them.
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I hated being volunteered. The problem with my life was that it was someone else's idea.
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That was the first time that I really saw my mother as a person. A person who was so much more than just my mother. It was strange to think of her that way.
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When I hung up the phone, I felt a little sad. And a little happy. For a few minutes I wished that Dante and I lived in the universe of boys instead of the universe of almost-men.
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Words were not things you could control. Not always.
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What did school matter compared to a sister?
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I’ll leave a note to the rector of the cathedral and remind him that a woman gave him birth. Something for him to think about the next time he gives one of his sermons. I’m writing all this down.
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Her fading voice was the one I heard the loudest.
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Some day we’ll all be happy. I promise you. And there won’t be any more fighting.
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One summer night I fell asleep hoping the world would be different when I woke. In the morning, when I opened my eyes, the world was the same.
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My mother watched me. It was true. I had never loved her more.
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It made me smile, the way they got along, the easy and affectionate way they talked to each other as if love between a father and a son was simple and uncomplicated. My mom and I, sometimes what we had was easy and uncomplicated. Sometimes. But me and my dad, we didn't have that. I wondered what that would be like, to walk into a room and kiss my father.
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There were so many ghosts in our house - the ghost of my brother, the ghost of my father's war, the ghost of my sister's voices. And I thought that maybe there were ghosts inside of me that I hadn't even met yet. They werer there. Lying in wait.
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I keep that memory somewhere inside me—where it’s safe. I take it out and look at it when I need to. As if it were a photograph.
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You know, the thing about not talking very much is that people think you’re mature. They make things up about you.
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I wondered what that was like, to hold someone’s hand. I bet you could sometimes find all of the mysteries of the universe in someone’s hand.
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I lost myself somewhere. And that’s a very sad thing. Losing yourself is sad and heartbreaking. Fucking sad and fucking heartbreaking. Losing yourself isn’t like losing a key to your house. It isn’t like losing an expensive pair of sunglasses or even the only copy of the greatest screenplay you’ve ever written.
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Dogs don't censor themselves. Maybe animals were smarter than people. The dog was so happy. My mom and dad too. It felt good to know that they loved the dog, that they let themselves do that. And somehow it seemed that the dog helped us be a better family.
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I had this image stuck in my mind. I was four and I was walking down the street, holding my brother’s hand. I wondered if it was a memory or a dream. Or a hope.
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Dad read the sports page. My theory was that he kept up with the sports world in order to be able to have a decent conversation with his brothers—that was the way he loved them.
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I wanted to close my eyes and let the silence swallow me whole.