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You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.
Jay Asher
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Jay Asher
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: September 30
Novelist
Writer
Arcadia
California
Appreciate
Accusing
Afraid
Dealing
Accepting
Poem
Told
Mirror
Saying
Mirrors
Words
Excuse
Used
Wrote
Mom
Appreciating
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A lot of you cared, just not enough.
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After all, how often do we get a second chance?
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A flood of emotions rushes into me. Pain and anger. Sadness and pity. But most surprising of all, hope.
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We both laugh. And it feels good. A release. Like laughing at a funeral. Maybe inappropriate, but definitely needed.
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Maybe it's not as important to you as it was for me, but that's not for you to decide.
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I wanted people to trust me, despite anything they'd heard. And more than that, I wanted them to know me. Not the stuff they thought they knew about me. No, the real me. I wanted them to get past the rumors. To see beyond the relationships I once had, or maybe still had but that they didn't agree with.
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Because what if I got to know you and you turned out to be just like they said? What if you weren’t the person I hoped you were? That, more than anything, would have hurt the most.
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I left. When I should have stayed.
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Maybe you didn't know what people thought of you because they themselves didn't know what they thought of you. Maybe you didn't give us enough to go on, Hannah.
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And what if in the future we're at war again, or we still haven't elected a non-white or non-male president, or the Rolling Stones are still dragging their tired old butts on stage? That would depress me way too much.
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You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately, you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life. Everything. . . affects everything.
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I hope you're ready, because I'm about to tell you the story of my life. More specifically, why my life ended. And if you're listening to these tapes, you're one of the reasons why.
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I hate not knowing what to believe anymore. I hate not knowing what's real.
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And at some point, the struggle becomes too much-too tiring-and you consider letting go. Allowing tragedy... or whatever... to happen.
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Do you remember the last thing you said to me? The last thing you did to me? And what was the last thing I said to you? Because trust me when I said it I knew it was the last thing I’d ever say.
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We all know the sound a camera makes when it snaps a picture. Even some of the digitals do it for nostalgia’s sake.
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Actually, I love trying to figure out why certain books become hits while others, which may be just as good, have trouble finding an audience.
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If I had a chance with him, I missed it. No, I didn't miss it. I threw it away.
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And it feels strange, almost sad, to walk through ther empty halls. Each step I take sounds so lonely.
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