The Critic

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

Theodore Roosevelt

That thing you do.

"I have wasted thousands of kisses on you... kisses that I thought were special because of your lips and your smile and all your color and life. I used to think that was the real you, when you smiled. But now I know you didn't mean any of it. You just save it all for your songs. Shame on me for kissing you with my eyes closed so tight."

Faye, That Thing You Do.

Being unwell.

"I don't know how i do it. how easy it is to hide emotions when you're standing in a room full of people. How easy it is to stare at the computer screen ...reliving a time gone by. I don't know how it is possible to hurt so much...without letting the world know. Without them catching a glimpse of what you're feeling inside. How do i do it? why do i not scream? why do i not hit walls? why do i not bleed profusely...openly. hoarsely.

I want them to know. i want them to hurt like i do. i want the world to punish themselves for not knowing. for being so ignorant. for being so vile. for doing this to me.

why do i have to be so bottled up? why do i have to hold on to this grudge? why do i let it slice my insides? why do i wish horrible things to happen? why m i so angry?

This is what you call being diseased. the disease is all here...in the heart."