I became afraid that everyone was wrong - that my much-trumpeted existence might turn out to be utterly useless, void, and without the shred of a purpose.
— Salman Rushdie, Midnight’s Children (via fuckyeahexistentialism)
I mean, if you were to find a shattered mirror, find all the pieces, all the shards and all the tiny chips, and have whatever skill and patience it took to put all that broken glass back together so that it was complete once again, the restored mirror would still be spiderwebbed with cracks, it would still be a useless glued version of its former self, which could only show fragmented reflections of anyone looking into it. Some things are beyond repair. And that was me.
— Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation