The Law of Moses

Everyone always talks about being color blind. And I get that. I do. But maybe instead of being color blind, we should celebrate color, in all its shades. It kind of bugs me that we’re supposed to ignore our differences like we don’t see them, when seeing them doesn’t have to be a negative.

There are laws. There are rules. And when you break them, there are consequences. Laws of nature and laws of life. Laws of love and laws of death.

Any time you start feeling sorry for yourself or you go into a rant about how bad life sucks, you immediately have to name five greats.

If you don’t love, then nobody gets hurt. It’s easy to leave. It’s easy to lose. It’s easy to let go.

People liked religion but they didn't want to have to exercise any faith. Religion was comforting with all its structure and its rules. It made people feel safe. But faith wasn't safe. Faith was hard and uncomfortable and forced people to step out on a limb.

If I were to paint you, I would use every color.

The dead weren't angry or lost. They knew exactly what was up. It was the living that didn't have a clue.

Time softens memories, sanding down the rough edges of death.

he was like water—cold, deep, unpredictable, and, like the pond up the canyon, dangerous, because you could never see what was beneath the surface. And just like I’d done all my life, I jumped in head first, even though I’d been forbidden. But this time, I drowned.

Do you think she knows how much I love her?" "You gave her flowers and said you were sorry." "I did." "You kissed her." I could only nod. "You painted her pictures and hugged her when she cried." "Yeah," I whispered. "You laughed with her too." I nodded again. "Those are all the ways to say I love you.

I’m a very ordinary girl, Moses. I know that I am. And I always will be. I can’t paint. I don’t know who Vermeer is, or Manet for that matter. But if you think ordinary can be beautiful, that gives me hope. And maybe sometime you’ll think about me when you need an escape from the hurt in your head.

It was both manic and mesmerizing, it was controlled chaos and detailed dementia.

A story of before and after, of new beginnings and never-endings. A story flawed and fractured, crazy and cracked, and most of all, a love story.

THE FIRST FEW WORDS of every story are always the hardest to write. It’s almost as if pulling them out, putting them on paper, commits you to seeing it all through. As if once you start, you are required to finish. And how do you finish when some things never end?

I wanted to bite him hard enough to express my frustration, yet sweetly enough that he’d let me do it again.

We never saw what was obvious until we were hit over the head with it.

My brain might be cracked, but it's not just my brain. The sky is cracked too, and I can sometimes see what's on the other side.

Those are my five greats for Georgia today. Those were my five greats yesterday and they will be tomorrow and the next day, until your kisses get old. Then I'll have to think of something else.

Normal was so lost to me that I didn't even know where to look for it

I turned, letting her catch me. And I caught her too, wrapping my arms around her so tight that the space between us became space around us, space above us, but not space inside us.

People love babies, even sick babies. Even crack babies. But babies grow up to be kids. Nobody really wants messed up kids. And Moses was messed up.

My brain is already scrambled enough.”“Cracked,” I said, not thinking. “Yeah.” Moses scowled. “Well, it’s working for you.” I turned and looked at my walls. “Cracks and all. In fact, if your brain wasn’t cracked, none of the brilliance could spill out. Do you realize that?

We can't escape ourselves, Tag. Here, there, half-way across the world, or in a psych ward in Salt Lake City. I'm Moses and you're Tag. And that part never changes. So either we figure it out here or we figure it out there. But we still gotta deal. And death won't change that.

I want him to take life by the horns and ride it for all it's worth.

If I tell you right up front, right in the beginning that I lost him, it will be easier for you to bear.

I wondered how he'd learned to push the words away, to drown them, to not feel them pounding against his head and his heart, begging to be spoken.

maybe none of us are safe. Not truly. Not even from the people we love. Not even from the people who love us.