Everything about me is average: average looks, average intelligence, average personality. I have no long shiny hair, no funny comebacks, no intriguing fashion sense. I have no great talent. I don’t dance or sing or play an instrument. I’m not an artist or a poet or a mathematician. I’m not religious or creative or multilingual or political - I’m not anything. I lack morals, but I’m not a badass. I’m no fool, but I’m not wise either. I’m not smart or dumb; pretty or ugly; old or young. I am the epitome of the in-betweener. Even the one thing I had that I thought set me apart - that I thought I could use to make sense of this bullshit excuse for a life - turned out to be nothing. No matter how fancy my vocabulary was, I could never weave the words together cohesively so that they magically formed some sort if poetic sentence, like so many others can.
I have nothing. I am nothing.
Plain Jane, going insane.
Tom: Look, we don't have to put a label on it. That's fine. I get it. But, you know, I just... I need some consistency.
Summer: I know.
Tom: I need to know that you're not gonna wake up in the morning and feel differently.
Summer: And I can't give you that. Nobody can.
"Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull and boring they are on the outside, inside them they’ve all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe."
The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.
Larry: What were you so sad about?
Larry: What’s that then?
Alice: You want to talk about art?
Larry: I know it’s vulgar to discuss the work at the opening of the work, but somebody’s gotta do it. I’m serious. What do you think?
Alice: It’s a lie. It’s a bunch of sad strangers photographed beautifully, and all the glittering assholes who appreciate art say it’s beautiful ‘cause that’s what they want to see. But the people in the photos are sad, and alone, but the pictures make the world seem beautiful. So the exhibition’s reassuring, which makes it a lie, and everyone loves a big fat lie
"You speak of a fever that burns you inside as you explain to your mother how you wanted to die, so she kisses your fingers, says, “my darling but why when there is so much more?” Do you know there are spaces open and wide? Oh, believe me there is days longer than nights. And you will be happy if only you try, oh, won’t you try? Won’t you try?"
-the joy in forgetting, the joy in acceptance (bright eyes)