Jake Vander Ark Quotes

... girls were like poems: weird, incomprehensible and boring, but those "in the know" assured me that they were beautiful.

Sometimes life isn't worth the pain. i'm going for a swim. goodbye, my love.

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I think the same could be said for time.

94 was a good year to be twelve. Star Wars still had two more years as Box Office King, cartoons were still hand-drawn, and the Disney "D" still looked like a backwards "G." Words like "Columbine," "Al Qaeda" and "Y2K" were not synonymous with "terror," and 9-1-1 was an emergency number instead of a date. At twelve years old, summer still mattered. Monarch caterpillars still crawled beneath every milkweed leaf. Dandelions (or "wishes" as Mara called them) were flowers instead of pests. And divorce was still considered a tragedy. Before Mara, carnivals didn't make me sick.

He smirked. "Decision time, pretty lady... back to reality?"
She touched his cheek. "Or down the rabbit hole?

But in the end, black can never be white, one plus one must always equal two, and Mara Lynn was a normal little girl.

She had a woman's swagger at twelve-and-a-half. Hair: strawberry-blonde, and I vaguely recall a daisy in the crook of her ear. She was an inch taller than me, two with the ponytail; smooth cheeks and darling brown eyes that marbled in luscious contrast with her magnolia skin; cream, melting to peach, melting to pink. She beamed like a cherub without the baby fat; a tender neck; pristine lips that would never part for a dirty word. Her body
of no interest to me at the time
was wrapped from neck to toes with home-made footie pajamas, the kind they make for toddlers, but I didn't laugh; the girl filled that silly one-piece ensemble as if it were couture.

It was unmatched life experience that bestowed in her eyes the sultry gleam that separates women from girls. although she viewed her "life experience" like bruises on a peach, men of all ages still found ways to see past the indications of damaged goods long enough to offer her a drink. hell, it was less than an hour ago that one such man called her "gothic perfection" and cried on her shoulder. her boyfriend agreed that a crazy life can "grow a girl up quick"; it was only last november that she turned seventeen.

His stubble was cut smooth. he smelled of aftershave, dry deodorant and sex-tarnished bedsheets. those eyes
grey, strong, inlaid beneath a firm brow that displayed such hate and SUCH love
they seduced her every time ... but not tonight.

Brain-like in function and speed, the internet connected over one-third of the global population. Three million searches every minute; one-hundred-trillion emails every year; more Facebook users than people in North America, all with with personal photos, videos, apps, and chats. There were dozens of dating sites, an immersive universe called 2nd Life that boasted a country-sized GDP, a slew of viruses, obnoxious advertising, more than a billion photos of naked women, and seventy-two hours of video uploaded to YouTube every minute. This was the environment where the friendship flourished.

What's so beautiful about girls?" I would implore.
And the secret society of adults would reply with a smirk and wink as if I was merely a boy who couldn't possibly have the mental maturity to comprehend such grown-up concepts as love and bleeding vaginas; "You'll understand someday, James.

William looked up ... through his tears ... past the catwalk and lights ... past the sky ... through the dark and clouds and stars and into the void where he once knew God existed, then turned himself outside-in, alone, and asked, 'Why?

When he did think - when his brain began the slow chugging of rusty gears - the only thoughts that came were unspeakable things like, what's the worst age a child can die? Worse yet was - after hours spent staring at the ceiling until it became a real-life Escher print with fans on the floor, useless windowsills, and dresser drawers that spilled underwear when opened - worse yet was when his mind found answers to those questions. Two-years-old isn't so bad, he mused. They barely had a life. Twenty? At least they got to experience life! But fourteen ... fourteen was the worst.

Over the past several months, Amelía's Google history had become a reference of her despair: "can't have children, reasons for infertility in women, reasons for infertility in men, discussing infertility with husband, price of surrogate mothers, signs of depression, adoption agencies, infertility support groups…" The endless searches only provided two categories of results: medical sites that took pride in listing every worst-case scenario, and blogs written by white women with phrases like "silent suffering" and "living with uncertainty," mixing in Bible verses about God's Grace, none of which filled the void or helped Aimee ignore the fact that Mother's Day was a month away and she would have to watch her family celebrate the one thing she wanted most and might never have.

You know that moment when you hug somebody, when your heart feels warm and high in your chest and tingly? When you feel just for a second like a baby in a womb ... that nothing matters? That's how I want you to feel. That's what a girlfriend should do, I think.

When left unsatisfied, lust becomes violence.

The Age of the Stars had come to an end. Once in a billion years, a feeble supernova illuminated the vestiges of its home; brown dwarfs, neutron stars, blackholes ... lifeless echoes of their former majesty.

Someday they would discover that the stars were not sacred, but made from the same material as their bodies. They would learn it was the stars that created their worlds, that worlds created their minds, that minds created tools, and tools could create stars. Growing, sprawling, thriving until they too became masters of their own understanding, chasing enlightenment with the fervor of having nothing to lose, launching from their homelands like fireworks with glorious yellow tails.

The feeling was FEAR, she realized... but it was a new type of fear; more sincere than the jitters she felt when it rained and not as piercing as the terror of crashing cars. This fear was darker somehow... mysterious... curious like the retracted paws of an alley cat.

The night seemed suddenly defiled by the absence of music, as if the silence itself was injecting a sickness that only another song could cure.

Life operates exactly like the Star Wars prequels. It's boring, bloated, painful when it shouldn't be, and lacks a cohesive storyline. And ultimately, it only exists to boost the ego of its creator.

Any earthly production would have been cancelled at the slightest suggestion of rain, but this was William's Stage - it was William's call - and if the children danced and the congregation remained transfixed, the show would go on.

Most suicidal teens are different; they're tempted to kill themselves. with me, i know i need to die; i should be killed for the things i've done. but i keep feeling this nudge, this TEMPTATION TO LIVE. and everyday i pray to god that i never lose that temptation.

But Hannah's friend didn't understand the volatile balancing act between art and sanity, that the act of creation was like walking a tightrope during an earthquake. She didn't understand Hannah's stupid need for validation, or that the size of the audience increased the stakes and multiplied the fear. She didn't understand that creativity was dangerous, that, yes, there were some people who could stand before a canvas, paint a sunset that would bring the world to its knees, and return to their loved ones as a complete person who didn't hurt, didn't cry, didn't spill blood to appease the host of fickle muses. But Hannah did. Hannah's best ideas - sometimes her only ideas - were buried beneath the skin.

A multitude of harlequin lifeforms bobbed and twirled and played in the depths of the Atlantic. Pink cucumbers with thorny backs. Algae. Starfish. Annelids with simple brains and a hundred toes. Sponges - like yellow, swollen hands - sucked in water and pushed out oxygen. Most amusing were the mysterious buggers who had no likeness on the previous earth; tiny beasts with exotic exoskeletons engraved with deep grid-like patterns, snails with horns, and slithering plants that looked like magenta weeping willows.

Hannah strived for physical catharsis, but she was trapped in an unfamiliar mind without its biological counterparts; gasping without lungs, crying without tears, forgiving without a heart.