Quotes About Vulnerability

Come! surely you've got a heart hidden away somewhere; open it up; give it air; show at least some little corner of it.

Art is lunging forward without certainty about where you are going or how to get there, being open to and dependent on what luck, the paint, the typo, the dissonance, give you. Without art you're stuck with yourself as you are and life as you think life is.

I think that's what finally stopped me. I slid right to the edge. My legs were hanging over. And I could feel it too. I don't know how. There was no wind, no sound, no change of temperature. There was just this terrible emptiness reaching up for me.

At least when you're drunk, Tom adds, quickly wiping the wet from his face. You've always got the floor for your best friend. Know why? It's always there for you, Navidson answers, his own cheeks suddenly flushing with emotion as he helps his weaving brother to the kitchen. That's right, Tom whispers. Just like you.

I've got to stop blinking in the face of my fear. I must hear what I scream. I must remember what I dream.

Ashamed before. Ashamed now.

Lude would never feel how 'empty hallways long past midnight' could slice inside of you, though I'm not so sure he wasn't sliced up just the same. Not seeing the rip doesn't mean you automatically get to keep clear of the Hey-I'm-Bleeding part.

Of course during all this, the children are once again abandoned, left to look after each other, with no one around to help translate the horror of the afternoon.

Unfortunately, humans lack the sophisticated neural hardware present in bats and whales. The blind must rely on the feeble light of fingertips and the painful shape of a cracked shin. Echolocation comes down to the crude assessment of simple sound modulations, whether in the dull reply of a tapping cane or the low, eerie flutter in one simple word--perhaps your word--flung down empty hallways long past midnight.

Unfortunately nothing happened with the girls. They just ran off giggling into the night. No digits, no dates, not even their names, leaving me feeling dumb and sad, a bit like a broken thermos- fine on the outside, but on the inside nothing but busted glass.

The thought that I'd frightened someone I felt only tenderness for made it far worse.

But it feels like the hinges must have finally failed, whatever was trying to get in, at last succeeding, instantly tearing into me, and though I'm still conscious, slashing my throat with those long fingers and ripping my ribs out one by one with its brutal jaws.

Suddenly she hated me for knowing, even though she'd been the one to tell me. Though I had asked. I had asked.

I'm just another stupid human.

Liesel's blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.

When her hands reached out and poured the tea, it was as if she also poured something into me while I sat there sweating in my cab. It was like she held a string and pulled on it just slightly to open me up. She got in, put a piece of herself inside me, and left again.

It's my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn't feel like this.

She places her hands around my neck and rests her head on my shoulder. I can smell the sex on her, and my hope is that she can smell the love on me.

You can do anything when it's not real. When it is real, nothing breaks your fall. Nothing gets between you and the ground.

Is there cowardice with the acknowledgement of fear?

I guess when someone tells you something they they usually guard, you feel privileged, not because you know something no-one else knows, but because you feel chosen. You feel like that person wants her life to intersect with yours. I think that's what felt best about it.

For a moment, I debated whether I should tell someone about the words I'd started writing down, but I couldn't. In a way, I felt ashamed, even though my writing was the one thing that whispered okayness in my ear. I didn't speak it, to anyone.

Entonces, ¿se es cobarde por sentir miedo? ¿Se es cobarde por alegrarse de seguir vivo?

She closes the door completely, and I crouch there. I allow myself to fall forward and rest my head on the door frame. My breath bleeds. My heartbeat drowns my ears.