For many, depression is life and death. Maybe not always physical death but spiritual death. You can't live. You can't dream. You're gone.

I've made a life out of art.

Where does time go? Where does it live? Where do my lost memories live?

I feel a loneliness so deep I think I was born with it.

I miss hope. I miss dreams. I miss believing life will get better. His death killed all of that.

Grief has seasons, it evolves and changes. It's like the weather, always present, a governing force, but it comes in different forms. You adapt to its moods just as you wear a scarf in winter or sunscreen in summer. I think this is a good way of looking at grief, not as finite, not as stages, but as something omnipresent, like air, like weather

The silence of the end matches the silence of the beginning.

A writing of absence, of the empty space that marks what was once there.

Grief gave me a voice.

What is my soul? This paper that holds these words.

Remember, remember, remember. And yet how to live with the memories?

My body wants to bloom. My soul wants to escape this rotten meat. I'm encased in impermanence when all I want is infinity

The grand lie: It gets better.

I only see descent. I look at the time ahead as a plummet.

Breathing deeply outside, I feel I am consuming the wind. The light is inside me.

The burden of life.

I ache for all the missing pieces of myself--my father, my home.

The past won't let me back in. It's a locked room with no key.

Grief within grief. Grief on top of grief. Layer after layer.

A wound replaces and removes so much material. It takes.

His death was the end of the dream.

So much loss. A life of it. All I can do is cry.

Not having a father, not having that relationship, that tenderness, that history. It has damaged me.

I must make a home in literature and in cinema.

The memories are paltry compared to the actual presence of a person. Memories are not enough.

Nothing is ever really ours.

I think my greatest desire is to live without fear. That would be true freedom.

I have this terrible sense that my past is disappearing.

These fragments are my life's work.

I would like to feel a sense of healing in my life. I don't know if I ever will. All I feel is the gaping, festering, open wound of grief.

Realization: The writing is the healing.

I write for survival. That's all. I'm a writer because I'm devastated.