Sisyphus may roll his stone, but I have my morning alarm.
I think sometimes being a runner has trained me too well to use that overrule, to endure whatever path lies before me, to be patient to a fault—to stay the course when the course is going to kill me.
Reading the news well and responding to it is not everything, but it is something—and so I won’t refuse.
When I put pen to paper, there’s only room for one thought at a time. Every thought is on equal footing.
I don’t believe in a god anymore. This wasn’t without cost, and there was grief, naturally. But after grief comes normalcy. Also, humour.
Remember: you have more time to do the things you want to do than you might think.
Never had I been overcome with such a surge of euphoria accompanied by petrifying fear and grief.
The new tyranny of everything-at-once feels like a distant dystopia, and the sky looks a different color, and there’s another new, another normal.
Getting into the river was a comically tedious process. Everything was covered in a foot of snow, and the banks were mostly iced-over.
I believe every crushed spider, on some level, represents a failure to respect and love the world we’ve been given.