And I know fuck isn’t a word that Mormons say, but I don’t say this word I only think it, so it doesn’t really count.

I’ve noticed in my life that the people who act as my angels are not some strange angelic creatures that seem almost untouchable, but are more real than that. They are people who have tasted sorrow, who have felt pain, and in a way, that makes them capable of being an angel. In their darkest moments they have become strong.

During the day I would move my body to the rhythm that only I could hear. I would try and connect with everything in my surroundings thinking that it somehow connected to who I was and was secretly sending me messages about what was in my soul.

The caterpillar turns to liquid before turning into a butterfly. Liquid. Thus washing away any speck of his caterpillar self as he lies completely vulnerable to his environment in his chrysalis shell. One good solid gust of wind and the caterpillars boned.

It was strange that in some sort of Jeffrey Dahmer meets Ghandi way I was
able to love myself for hating myself. It seemed like a warped sense of
love. But it was love without conditions.

It wasn’t that everything was going my way, but I began to believe that the way it was going was perfect. I accepted that where I was in life, was exactly where I was supposed to be.