I craft most of my own tragedies without ever having even the remotest understanding that it is I myself who have done the crafting.

I am the greatest obstacle to my greatest dreams.

I’ve memorized the best angles in the bathroom from which to see how badly I’ve disintegrated. I truly do go from sixty to zero.

When I read the ghastly lines of tragedy darkly penned into my life, I turn and notice that the pen in my hand is wet.

It takes but a handful of words to ambush my soul with hope. Yet, the vexing question in it all is why do I so often ambush the words?

Why is it that we don’t worry about a compass until we’re lost in a wilderness of our own making?