I Am the Messenger

Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.

Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.

It's not a big thing, but I guess it's true--big things are often just small things that are noticed.

Believe it or not--it takes a lot of love to hate you like this.

I'd rather chase the sun than wait for it.

You can kill a man with those words. No gun. No bullets. Just words and a girl.

I'm not the messenger at all. I'm the message.

My arms are killing me. I didn't know words could be so heavy.

I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.

Only in today's sick society can a man be persecuted for reading too many books.

People die of broken hearts. They have heart attacks. And it's the heart that hurts most when things go wrong and fall apart.

If a guy like you can stand up and do what you did, then maybe everyone can. Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.

That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.

All my friends seem to be smart arses. Don't ask me why. Like many things, it is what it is.

It's impeccable how brutal the truth can be at times. You can only admire it. Usually, we walk around constantly believing ourselves. "I'm okay," we say. "I'm alright." But sometimes the truth arrives on you, and you can't get it off. That’s when you realize that sometimes it isn’t even an answer - it's a question. Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.

She soon says, "You're my best friend, Ed." You can kill a man with those words. No gun. No bullets. Just words and a girl.

Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.

Big things are often just little things that people notice.

My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.

What would you do if you were me? Tell me. Please tell me! But you're far from this. Your fingers turn the strangeness of these pages that somehow connect my life to yours. Your eyes are safe. The story is just another few hundred pages of your mind. For me, it's here. It's now. I have to go through with this, considering the cost at every turn. Nothing will be the same.

My full name's Ed Kennedy. I'm nineteen. I'm an underage cab driver. I'm typical of many of the young men you see in this suburban outpost of the city -- not a whole lot of prospects or possibility. That aside, I read more books than I should, and I'm decidedly crap at sex and doing my taxes. Nice to meet you.

Our footsteps run, and I don't want them to end. I want to run and laugh and feel like this forever. I want to avoid any awkward moment when the realness of reality sticks its fork into our flesh, leaving us standing there, together. I want to stay here, in this moment, and never go to other places, where we don't know what to say or what to do.

She looks at the swings, and I can see she’s imagining what they’d look like if the kids weren’t there. The guilt of this holds her down momentarily. It appears to be there constantly. Never far away, despite her love for them. I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.

Have you ever noticed that idiots have a lot of friends? It's just an observation.

When her hands reached out and poured the tea, it was as if she also poured something into me while I sat there sweating in my cab. It was like she held a string and pulled on it just slightly to open me up. She got in, put a piece of herself inside me, and left again.

I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.

We both laugh and run and the moment is so thick around me that i feel like dropping into it to let it carry me.

Why can’t the world hear? I ask myself. Within a few moments I ask it many times. Because it doesn’t care, I finally answer, and I know I’m right. It’s like I’ve been chosen. But chosen for what? I ask.

No, I'm not a saint, Sophie. I'm just another stupid human.