Tabitha Suzuma Quotes

Out of the millions and millions of people that inhabit this planet, he is one of the tiny few I can never have.

At what point do you give up - decide enough is enough? There is only one answer really. Never.

She reaches out for the crumpled sheet at the end of her bed and wraps it round beneath her arms. The white material swirls around her feet, making me smile. I pull on my underwear and join her by the window, kissing her cheek. 'I do.'

She looks at me questioningly and then down at the sheet before breaking into giggles.

'In sickness and in health?' she asks. 'Till death us do part?'

I shake my head. 'Way beyond that,' I say. 'For ever.

In some indefinable way he felt drawn to her, as if he already knew her, as if they had been close friends, soulmates even, somewhere in a previous existence. Her mere presence seemed to calm his thoughts, saving him from the vicissitudes of his mind. She appeared before him as familiar, a kindred spirit. Perhaps it was something in her face, her eyes. She seemed to know ... what, exactly, he was not sure. She seemed to understand. Or rather, he had detected in her the capacity to understand.

Here's to getting reacquainted with your own feelings. Here's to being able to want, without being sure you're going to get. To risk being hurt and to risk being rejected. Here's to life." - Rami

Dan was picking himself up and wiping the mud from his trousers and groaning and saying to Raven "Christ, you're fast! I always used to beat everyone at obstacle courses!" and Jackie was patting him on the back and laughing and saying, "Don't worry, darling you were very good. I'm sure none of the other parents could have beaten you!

Nothing can relieve the pain. Not crying, laughing, screaming, begging. Nothing can change the past.

Suddenly there was movement behind him and Dan's hand appeared on his shoulder. "Raven, what's the matter? What are you staring at?" Dan covered Raven's hands with his own. Raven's fingers seemed to have frozen and Dan tried to uncurl them and pull them off the rail. "Hey, buddy, it's OK. I've got you. You're perfectly safe. We're just going to kneel and go back down the steps. All you have to do is let go and kneel down. I've got you, I've got you."
Suddenly there was nothing holding him. A strangled sob escaped him.
"I've got you, I've got you. Look, I'm right here, you can't possible fall. I'm right behind you." Dan put an arm round his waist and gripped him tight and told him what to do with his hands and feet, and they began co climb down together.
It took for ever. Raven's fingers were so cold he could hardly feel them. Moving each foot down a rung seemed to take all the strength he had. "Don't let go," he said, his teeth chattering loudly in his mouth. "Don't let go, don't let go, don't let go."
"I'm not going to let go, Raven" Dan said. "I promise Matey, I'll never let you fall."
They finally reached the ground. Raven was so wobbly he could hardly stand. He felt Dan envelop him in a tight, strong hug. "You're all right, mate," Dan whispered. "You're all right." Raven clung to him. He never wanted Dan to let go.

Lochie. The boy I once loved. The boy I still love. The boy I will continue to love, even when my part in this world is over too.

I want to tell her that I can't pull her down. I want to tell her that she has to let go of my hand in order to swim. I want to tell her that she must live her own life. But I sense she already knows that these options are open to her. And that she, too, has made her choice.

As she chats away, the candlelight is reflected in her pupils, making them shine like cats' eyes. When she smiles, her nose crinkles and dimples appear in her cheeks. I look at her, stare at her, and I think: I wish I could pick you up and put you in my pocket. I wish I could carry you with me all the time, safe and warm. I wish there was a way I could be with you all the time, every hour of every day. Each time you smile, it's like the first time all over again, and my heart flutters in my chest. I want to reach out and hold you – it's like a physical ache. I want to stroke your face and kiss your eyelashes and feel your skin and smell your hair. I love you. I love you so much. And it hurts. I don't know why.

Pressed up against him, I can feel the thud of his heart against mine, his ribcase expanding and contracting rapidly against my chest, the warm whisper of his breath tickling the side of my neck, the brush of his leg against my thigh. Resting my arms on his shoulders, I pull back a little to get a look at his face. But he isn't smiling any more.

This is my favourite time of day, the afternoon barely ended, the evening not yet begun; the languid hours of sunshine stretch out ahead of us before fading into dusky twilight.

Willa's big blue eyes, Willa's dimpled-cheeked smile. Tiffin's shaggy blond mane, Tiffin's cheeky grin. Kit's yells of excitement, Kit's glow of pride. Maya's face, Maya's kisses, Maya's love.
Maya, Maya, Maya ...

And the very important fact that I'm here to worry with you and go through all of this - every little bit of it - by your side, even your worst-case-scenario, should it somehow come to that. You wouldn't be doing any of it alone.'
Her voice drops and she looks down at our hands, fingers entwined, resting on her lap. 'Whatever happens, there will always be us.

But I don't want to be fine, not if it means she's going to let go of my hand; not if it means we're going to go back to being polite strangers.

He has little hope that university, when he gets there next year, will be any different. Like right now, all these pupils taking notes as if their life depended on it. All for what? he wants to shout. To get into the top university, so that you can somehow convince yourself you are better than the great unwashed? So that your parents can convince themselves that they are better parents than the great unwashed? So that Mum and Dad's fourteen-hour days at the office, paying for a fucking private education you never asked for, wasn't just a pathetic waste of a life?

But whichever form it took it brought with it, in those moments of bitter anguish, such a desperate surge of hope that it was almost untouchable, and flitted away like a golden butterfly into the bright blue sky - beautiful, unreachable and completely transistent.

And I know how he feels–it's so good it hurts.

What would it be like to fall all that way? Would you scream? Would you have time to shut your eyes before you hit the ground? And when you landed, you would look like a crumpled thing – not real, kind of like a rag doll in clothes – and one of your shoes would have fallen off and you wouldn't move at all. There wouldn't be much blood, only a thin trickle from the corner of your mouth. People would rush over to you, bend over you, and someone would pull out a mobile phone and call an ambulance. By the time the ambulance arrived, a small gaggle of bystanders would have formed and one of the would be looking up, pointing at the third-floor balcony. When the ambulance arrived, the green paramedics would put a fat white collar around your neck, press your chest and blow in your mouth. But after a while they would stop, look at their watches, write something down, lift you onto a stretcher, replace your missing shoe, smooth down your skirt, then cover you with a white sheet and lift you into the ambulance. And you would never see her again.

As the light begins to intensify, so does my misery, and I wonder how it is possible to hurt so much when nothing is wrong.

He seems so drugged up and slow. I miss his laughter, his impulsiveness, his wacky sense of humour, even his obsessive practicing. It makes me wonder who he actually is. If the old Flynn was ill – courtesy of a chemical imbalance in the brain – is this lithiumed Flynn the real MyCoy? Or perhaps both characters are just facets of a hidden, deeper soul that I have yet to meet. I just don't know. Sometimes I fear that the drug-free Flynn searingly manic, then catastrophically depressed – is who he really is. But because in that form he is not acceptable to conventional society, he has to be drugged so that his emotions are tempered and his behavior controlled. Perhaps we are blindly living in an Orwellian society where individualism is feared and the biggest pressure is the one to conform. Perhaps Flynn is sane and the rest of the world is mad. The thoughts go round and round in my head.

You can close your eyes to the things you do not want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the things you do not want to feel.

At the end of the day it's about how much you can bear, how much you can endure. Being together, we harm nobody; being apart, we extinguish ourselves.

Time has stopped; time is racing. Lochie's lips are rough yet smooth, hard yet gentle. His fingers are strong: I feel them in my hair and on my neck and down my arms and against my back. And I never want him to let me go.

Any guy, even imaginary, would just feel like second best. Second best to what? I don't even have an image of the perfect boyfriend. I just know he must exist. Because I have all these feelings-love, longing, wanting to be touched, dreaming of being kissed-yet no one to focus them on.

I'm tired of spending every minute of every hour of every day fighting back tears, swallowing repeatedly to try and ease the constant ache at the back of my throat. Even at night, as I lie there hugging my pillow, staring out through the open curtains, I don't allow myself to give in -- because if I did I would fall apart, I would fragment into a thousand pieces like shattered glass.

They say that depression makes you see everything in a negative light. I disagree. It makes you see things for what they are. It makes you take off the fucking rose-tinted glasses and look around and see the world as it really is- cruel, harsh and unfair. It makes you see people in their true colours- stupid, shallow and self-absorbed. All that ridiculous optimism, all that carpe diem and life-is-what-you-make-of-it. Words, jsut empty words in an attempt to give meaning to an existence taht is both doomed and futile.

This whole time, my whole life, that harsh, stony path was leading up to this one point. I followed it blindly, stumbling along the way, scraped and weary, without any idea of where it was leading, without ever realizing that with every step I was approaching the light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel. And now that I've reached it, now that I'm here, I want to catch it in my hand, hold onto it forever to look back on - the point at which my new life really began.

I would give anything to escape myself, Flynn thought, just for a day, just for a minute even. Just to know what it was like to think differently, to feel differently, and to not be me.

He shakes his head with a slow smile. You'd better be right. If the phone rings, I'm unpluggining it, I swear to God-"
You'd do that to your five-year-old sister?" I gasp in mock outrage.
For one whole night alone? Jesus, Maya, I'd sell her to the gypsies!

Within the grand scale of things, sitting in a classroom day after day is so utterly meaningless and pointless that it actually makes his chest hurt to think about it.

I might appear confident and chatty, but I spend most of my time laughing at jokes I don't find funny, saying things I don't really mean - because at the end of the day that's what we're all trying to do: fit in, one way or another, desperately trying to pretend we're all the same.

Walking down the street, weaving in and out of the crowds, I try to think of something - anything - to look forward to.

They've cranked up the lithium so high, I can hardly see straight. I feel like a robot, my feelings have completely evaporated and I couldn't even say boo to a goose. I'm no danger to anyone."

"I'm not thinking you're a danger to anyone."

"I'm no danger to myself, then."

Rami stops, spaghetti-laden fork halfway to his mouth. There is a long pause. "Are you sure about that?

OK, OK, calm down, I tell myself. It's going to be all right. She's going to come back, isn't she? Except that she isn't. I am going to die, I realize. I am actually going to die. I put my hands over my face and start to sob. I feel like I am being slowly, carefully, ripped in two. I realize that this pain is worse than anything I could ever imagine. Worse than the deepest depression. I can hardly breathe with the strength of it. I feel sure that pain of this intensity cannot be sustained: any minute I will pass out. But I don't, and the pain keeps on growing, fresh waves of undiluted agony. I am sobbing so hard I can barely draw breath. My lungs feel as if they are ready to burst and the gasping, retching noises make me sound as if I am suffocating.

Fear courses through my veins. Fear and pain in equal doses. She has to come back. She simply has to come back. I cannot live without her. I cannot, and I will not. So this is what they mean about dying of a broken heart. It is actually possible.

They entered the profession full of hope and vigor, determined to make a difference, to heed Gandhi and be the change they wanted to see in the world.

I am sure that music was never meant to sound this harsh, this painful.

She can't just be a face, a body; there has to be more than that, some kind of connection. And I can't connect, don't want to connect, with anyone.

Talking to adults is bearable; it's talking to people my age that's impossible.

You're so cute with your hair all gelled and spiky. You know, all I'm going to be thinking when you're on that stage is that I get to take you home with me tonight. - Jennah

There are moments during the day when I just grind to a halt and simply cannot find the energy to draw another breath.

When Jennah starts to sing, I feel the goose pimples rise on my arms. I haven't heard her sing this piece with the orchestra before. Her voice is strong and pure, resonating through the hall. She sways forward onto her toes and gazes out to the back of the concert hall, her eyes bright. The sleeves of her grey jumper are too long so I am sure I am the only one to notice when she taps her finger against her skirt to help her with a re-entry. I can almost taste her voice in my mouth. It is the colour of dawn. I want to run up and grab her and twirl her around. I want to yell, She's mine! The sight of her, standing there, singing, makes me want to shout with joy.

If I keep breathing, then I have to keep living, and if I keep living, then I have to keep hurting, and I can't - not like this.

His face is like a waxwork, and I realize suddenly with startling clarity that the body and the person are two different things. Two different entities, somehow fused. The body is the one I am looking at now, attached to all these machines, the heart still struggling to pump, the lungs still struggling to breathe, valiantly fighting to stay alive. The person is another being entirely, the perpetrator of this crime, the one who ruthlessly swallowed forty tablets sometime in the middle of the night, then lay down beside his girlfriend to die. The person tried to kill itself, tried to kill its own body. I understand for the first time why attempted suicide used to be an imprisonable offence. It is, after all, attempted murder. The person against the body.

This is the definition of happiness: a whole day stretching out ahead of me, beautiful in its emptiness and simplicity.

We can love each other.' I swallow hard to ease the constriction in my throat. 'There are no laws, no bundaries on feelings. We can love each other as much and as deeply as we want. No one, Maya, no one can never take that away from us.

The words fire from my mouth like bullets, ricocheting off the walls before I can even register what I'm saying.

You're really fond of him, aren't you," I say. My heart hurts.
"Well, he's the only brother-in-law I've got, so I'd rather hang onto him if at all possible!" Sophie replies.

It's just this pain, this unbearable mental pain – often it's your body too, and every part of you hurts. But you don't really care about your body, it's your mind. Every thought hurts like hell. Everything you see is awful, twisted, pointless. And the worst – the worst of it is yourself. You realize you are the most ghastly person in the world, the most hideous, inside and out. And you just want to escape, you just want to get rid of yourself, of your suffering, of the pain inside your head. You want to shut out the world and yourself, for ever. A-and death is the only option left because you've been through this time and time again, thought and thought about trying to change yourself, the way you think, the way you behave, the way you live. Yet it always comes back to this – the fact that you just d-don't want to be alive -

I think I'm going to die from happiness. I think I'm going to die from pain.

Years ago at music camp Harry once said to me, "He's not just a musical prodigy, you know. He's a musical genius." It comes back to me now. And I laugh when I kiss my 'musical genius' because really he's just Flynn.

only a matter of time before it broke through our fragile web of denial,
forcing us to confront the truth and acknowledge who we are:
two people in love – a love that nobody else could possibly understand.

The sobs tear at my throat. Who would have thought forty pills wouldn't be enough?

Fucking hell!"
Raven pulled his arm away angrily.
Lotte sat back on her heels, her eyes wide. "Jesus", she breathed.
Raven angrily yanked down his sleeve.
"You did that?" Her voice was faint.
He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall.
"You did that to yourself?" she asked softly. "Why?"
Raven didn't answer.
"Doesn't it hurt?"
"Course."
"So why d'you do it?"
He shrugged again. "It helps," he said.
"Helps what?"
"Helps me feel better."
"But how?" Lotte asked. "How can hurting yourself make you feel better? If I hurt myself, I feel worse. If I hurt myself badly, I just want to cry."
"It's the opposite. It takes away the pain."
"What pain?"
"The pain inside my head.

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Get through today – you can fall apart tomorrow. Get through tomorrow, you can fall apart the day after . . .

I can't tell you. I can't tell you of all people. Throughout my life you were the one person I could turn to. The one person I could always count on to understand. And now that I've lost you, I've lost everything.

There are no laws, no boundaries on feelings.We can love each other as much and as deeply as we want.No one, Maya, no one can ever take that away from us.

It's not what you're thinkin!" Jennah squawks, turning pink. "My God, you men only have one thing on the brain! We went for a walk in the park!"

"Well, we didn't exactly do very much walking," I interject, determined to wind her up.

Harry begins to laugh.

Jennah gasps in outrage. "We sat and watched the swans on the lake, thank you very much, Harry!"

Harry is still laughing. "Now could that possibly be a euphemism for--"

Jennah yelps and whacks Harry on the back of the head. Harry cries out in mock outrage. "Aargh! Is this how she treats you, Flynn? Whacking you if you don't make the bed in the morning, whacking you if you don't put the loo seat down--!

They say when you really love someone, you should be willing to set them free. So that is what I am doing. I will step back and you will move on. I will let you go ... Your happiness means everything to me. I will listen for your voice in the distance. I will look at the moon. I will keep you in my pocket. I will carry your smile with me everywhere, like a warm and comforting glow.

At the age of five she has already come to terms with one of the life's harshest lessons: that the world isn't fair.

What does this mean, then – I'm afraid? Scared of physical intimacy? No. I crave it, I dream about it. But for me there's no one. No one. Any guy, even imaginary, would just feel like second best. Second best to what? I don't even have an image of the perfect boyfriend. I just know he must exist. Because I have all these feelings – of love, longing, wanting to be touched, dreaming of being kissed – yet no one to focus them on. It makes me want to scream in frustration. It makes me feel like a freak. But worse than that, I feel so desperately disappointed.

What else could he possibly have done? What choices did he ever have?

You never let any of them lose! Even when giving them a run for their money, you always, always let them catch you in the end.

You cannot undo the past; you can only learn to live with it, find some way of making peace with it, and move on.

OK, listen, this is what we're going to do," Rami said at last. "You're going to come downstairs, get into the car with me and we're going to drive back to Watford."
Flynn lifted his head. "No!" he began to protest.
"Actually, Flynn, this is not open to discussion. If you won't come back with me, I'll have to take you to hospital."
"I'm not going to hospital," he said desperately. "You can't make me! Just let go of me, just leave me alone"! He tried to pull away, but his arms felt weak.
"Flynn, if we call an ambulance, they'll section you."
"Why? They can't do that! They can't!"
"They can and they will because right now you're a danger to yourself."
Flynn put his forehead back on his knees and bit his thumb hard. He just wished he could go back in time to before the argument, before the dinner, before Rami's phone call, before this morning's practice. How could the events of one day have ended in this?
"Don't call an ambulance," he whispered.
"Are you going to come back to Watford with me?"
He nodded. Defeated.

Oh God, Harry, I just don't know what to do."

"Have you ever thought..?"

"What?" I ask hopefully.

Harry hesitates. "That maybe there's nothing you can do?"

It is not the answer I'm expecting. I stare at him.

"I mean, maybe – maybe this is what it's going to be like when he gets ill," Harry continues doggedly. "He'll have an episode – either of mania or depression – his meds will be tweaked, therapy will be stepped up, and everyone will wait for it to pass. Which, of course, it will do."

"And so – you're saying I should just weather the storm?"

Harry nods slowly. "I think so, yes. Otherwise you're going to wear yourself down, trying to help him, trying to make things better, when it's basically out of your control."

I look at Harry. Somewhere, at the back of my mind, I think he might have a point. But I don't want to admit it. Not yet.

The thing I have feared and railed against these past few weeks – the total loss of control over my mind – has set in, and I have no way to fight it any more. I close my eyes and feel the coil of madness climb up my spine and creep into my brain. I watch it explode like the sun. So this is it, this is what it feels like after a long hard struggle – to lose the battle and finally go crazy.

I cannot bear the thought of this being just one moment in time, over almost before it started, already retreating into the past. I must hold onto it with all my might.

It's horrible being ashamed of someone you care about; it eats away at you. And if you let it get to you, if you give up the fight and surrender, eventually that shame turns to hate.

You won't find happiness by hiding from life, Flynn" - Rami

Do I realy regret that night? That one moment of joy beyond compare
– some people never experience it in a lifetime. But the downside to that taste of pure happiness is that,like a drug, a glimmer of paradise, it leaves you craving more.

My heart thumps as if it's ready to burst. Please let him come. Oh, please let him come." " I just have to hope. But I do hope, I hope so much it hurts." "He must be here. He must." - Jennah

But then why is it so terrible for me to be with the girl I love? Everyone one is permitted to have what they want, express their love as they please, without fear of harassment, ostracism, persecution, or even the law. Even emotionally abusive, adulterous relationships are often tolerated, despite the harm they cause others. In our progressive, permissive society, all these harmful, unhealthy types of "love" are allowed
but not ours.

I sit at my desk, I do as I must,
my heart is ridden with pain.
I follow instructions without looking up,
quietly going insane.

It's always nice being wanted. Even if it's by the wrong person.

And this is something I must accept - even if, like acid on metal, it is slowly corroding me inside.

We humans are so defenceless compared to the rest of the natural world, he thought to himself. We have no shell to protect us, no fur, no horns, no claws. We are just soft skin and fragile bones; we have only our minds to figure out a way to keep ourselves safe, and sometimes that's just not enough. We can be so easily hurt, so easily broken, so easily damaged beyond repair.

I close my eyes and try and shut him out. My fingers don't want to stay in time. They want to race ahead in fury, plunging into the dense fog of black notes, pulling the music out by its roots, hurling it up out of the piano and into the air.

Separated by so much more than distance and lifestyle, even their memories of a shared childhood have faded from their minds.

At what point does a fly give up trying to escape through a closed window–do its survival instincts keep it going until it is physicaly capable of no more,or does it eventualy learn after one crash too many that there is no way out?
At what point do you decide that enough is enough?

I am overcome by a feeling of complete detachment. I am a mere object to these people. I am barely human any more.