I Grew Into It. It Grew Into

There Is Never A Sudden Revelation, A Complete And Tidy Explanation For Why It Happened, Or Why It Ends, Or Why Or Who You Are. You Want One And I Want One, But There Isn't One. It Comes In Bits And Pieces, And You Stitch Them Together Wherever They Fit, And When You Are Done You Hold Yourself Up, And Still There Are Holes And You Are A Rag Doll, Invented, Imperfect. And Yet You Are All That You Have, So You Must Be Enough. There Is No Other Way.

I Either Want To Be Completely Recovered Or Completely Emaciated. It's The In Between That I Can't Stand, The Limbo Of Failure Where You Know That You Haven't Done Your Best At One Or The Other: Dying Or Living.

For A Long Time I Believed The Opposite Of Passion Was Death. I Was Wrong. Passion And Death Are Implicit, One In The Other. Past The Border Of A Fiery Life Lies The Netherworld. I Can Trace This Road, Which Took Me Through Places So Hot The Very Air Burned The Lungs. I Did Not Turn Back. I Pressed On, And Eventually Passed Over The Border, Beyond Which Lies A Place That Is Wordless And Cold, So Cold That It, Like Mercury, Burns A Freezing Blue Flame.

My Parents Say That Even As A Very, Very Little Kid, The Way That I Acted Was Dramatically Different From Other Little Kids.

Some People Who Are Obsessed With Food Become Gourmet Chefs. Others Become Eating Disorders.