you can't take the sky from me

The unfed mind devours itself.

And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.

Nobody will protect you from your suffering. You can’t cry it away or eat it away or starve it away or walk it away or punch it away or even therapy it away. It’s just there, and you have to survive it. You have to endure it. You have to live through it and love it and move on and be better for it and run as far as you can in the direction of your best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by your own desire to heal.

When someone is crying, of course, the noble thing to do is to comfort them. But if someone is trying to hide their tears, it may also be noble to pretend you do not notice them.

I want people to be afraid of the women I dress.

Clearly, the man loves me. Can’t get enough of me. He hugs. He kisses. It’s embarrassing. Through thirty-some-odd years of stealing his bike, and stealing his lunch, and prank phone-calling, and gag gifts, and ear jokes, and “dull” jokes, and “ugly” jokes, and various bodily-function gags far too gruesome to elucidate, Leonard’s still crazy about me. Don’t let the curmudgeonly, vaguely annoyed tone fool you - Leonard’s always like that. It’s nothing personal. It’s really just the tragic aftereffects of prolonged ear-glue sniffing. Scratch through Leonard’s hard, crusty shell, and you’ll find… an even harder, crustier soul. Age can do that to a man… but keep digging, and somewhere amid the Nimoy innards, you’ll find that underneath all the bellyaching, Leonard secretly loves my relentless teasing and practical jokes. He lives for it. He’s never actually told me that; in fact, he often says the exact opposite, but through it all, I know the truth. After three decades of abuse, where lesser men would have by now grown tired of my absolutely brilliant little gags, Leonard hangs in there. Oh sure, he shouts at me, swears, pound his fists into my flesh, fingerpoints, name-calls, threatens to sue, flares his nostrils, and rolls his eyes every time I ambush him with yet another brilliantly hilarious trick, but that’s just his way of signaling me that he’s savoring every minute of it… I think. In fact, whenever he’s really enjoying my comedic gems, there’s a little vein just over his left eyebrow that sort of rises up out of his forehead and starts pulsating. It’s the cutest thing.

Once you’ve accepted your flaws, no one can use them against you.

When we started kissing, I was too hesitant, and [director] John [Krokidas] went, ‘No! Kiss him! Fucking sex kissing!’ The things directors have shouted to me in the past usually involve which way I have to look to see the dragon.

Here’s what I know: there are some wounds that would take some time to heal. Some pieces of yourself that will remain lost. Some aches that will always be there. But there will be days, too, when joy finds you unexpectedly. When you turn the pages of a book, or when you are flying your kite, or when you are sitting on your porch holding a cold bottle—you’ll find that life is actually good, and it’s worth it, all that hurt, just to be here. Now. (And when it isn’t—well, you know that I have your back, yeah?)