And on the days I couldn't breathe, I learned to paint air.
I write to forget the days that broke me into a million nights.
The pen, a double-edged mystery: cuts the writer, heals the reader.
I write to create a sky where the moon can touch the sun and not get burned.
The things you let go will someday teach you how to fly.
Every avalanche was once a lonely snowflake, every flood was once an aching raindrop.
The sun loved me again when it saw that the stars would not abandon me.