We arrive in this world crying and wailing into the arms of our mothers, but we leave quietly and ultimately alone. Death and even the prospect of it is a lonely affair. Even when there are others in the room you’re the only one that’s leaving with no-one to hold your hand and show you the away. You and I may wonder why, but the answer is not ours to know.— Net Recovery, work in progress.
Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.—
Anne Lamott (via jerfreyy)
It’s never too late. This is something I decided recently, and plans are afoot.