Not all stories speak to all listeners, but all listeners can find a story that does, somewhere, sometime. In one form or another.
Everyone wants the stars. Everyone wishes to grasp that which exists out of reach. To hold the extraordinary in their hands and keep the remarkable in their pockets.
Strange, isn't it? To love a book. When the words on the pages become so precious that they feel like part of your own history because they are. It's nice to finally have someone read stories I know so intimately.
Be brave. Be bold. Be loud. Never change for anyone but yourself.
For those who feel homesick for a place they’ve never been to. Those who seek even if they do not know what (or where) it is that they are seeking. Those who seek will find.
It is easier to be in love in a room with closed doors. To have the whole world in one room. One person. The universe condensed and intensified and burning, bright and alive and electric.
It doesn't look like anything special, like it contains an entire world, though the same could be said of any book.
But the world is strange and endings are not truly endings no matter how the stars might wish it so.
There is no fixing. There is only moving forward in the brokenness.
Reading a book four times in one day is perfectly normal behavior.
We are all stardust and stories.
This is not where our story ends, he writes. This is only where it changes.
"How are you feeling?" Zachary asks. "Like I’m losing my mind but in a slow, achingly beautiful sort of way."
A boy at the beginning of a story has no way of knowing that the story has begun.
It is a sanctuary for storytellers and storykeepers and storylovers. They eat and sleep and dream surrounded by chronicles and histories and myths.