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Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.

Jandy Nelson

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Jandy Nelson
Age: 58
Born: 1965
Born: November 25
Writer
New York City
New York
Whole
Packs
Good
Roll
Sky
Away
Someone
Wells
Might
Well
Pack

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The. World. Is. Not. A. Safe. Place.
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Meeting your soul mate is like walking into a house you've been in before - you will recognize the furniture, the pictures on the wall,the books on the shelves, the contents of drawers: You could find your way around in the dark if you had to.
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For the first time in our lives, I’m somewhere she can’t find, and I don’t have the map to give her that leads to me.
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Grief is forever. It doesn't go away it becomes part of you, step for step, breath for breath.
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It’s never occurred to me that the stars are still up there shining even in the daytime when we can’t see them.
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No hot guys should be allowed to have an English accent and drive a motorcycle. Not to mention wear the leather jacket or sport the cool shades. Hot guys should be forced into footie pajamas.
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That's exactly it—I am crazy sad, and somewhere deep inside, all I want is to fly.
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She's a sun-kissed beach girl who goes gothgrungepunkhippierockeremocoremetalfreakfashionistabraingeekboycrazyhiphoprastagirl to keep it under wraps.
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The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?
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You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles.
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And then he smiles, and in all the places around the globe where it's night, day breaks.
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Remember how it was when we kissed? Armfuls and armfuls of light thrown right at us. A rope dropping down from the sky. How can the word love and the word life even fit in the mouth?
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Years ago, I was crashed in gram’s garden and Big asked me what I was doing. I told him I was looking up at the sky. He said, “That’s a misconception, Lennie, the sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet.
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Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.
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The Color Of Extraordinary.
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When people fall in love, they burst into flames.
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This is our story to tell. You’d think for all the reading I do, I would have thought about this before, but I haven’t. I’ve never once thought about the interpretative, the story telling aspect of life, of my life. I always felt like I was in a story, yes, but not like I was the author of it, or like I had any say in its telling whatsoever.
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But then I think about my sister and what a shell-less turtle she was and how she wanted me to be one too. C'mon, Lennie, she used to say to me at least ten times a day. C'mon Len. And that makes me feel better, like it's her life rather than her death that is now teaching me how to be, who to be.
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Reality is crushing. The world is a wrong-sized shoe. How can anyone stand it?
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It's such a colossal effort not to be haunted by what's lost, but to be enchanted by what was.
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