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Quote by George R. R. Martin

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George R. R. Martin
George R. R. Martin

George R. R. Martin is an American novelist, best known for his epic fantasy works, particularly the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' series. His novels have gained widespread acclaim for their rich world-building, complex characters, and gripping narrative. The series has been adapted into the popular television show 'Game of Thrones'. more

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“I know cigarettes are killing me from the inside, but so are my illnesses. And after years of juggling meds—five, six, maybe more—my psychiatrist and I have finally, I think, landed on a combination that holds me together. I’m not claiming the pills are weak, or that they should perform miracles and pull every last demon out of my head in an instant. Healing isn’t a switch. It’s slow. It drags. But even with the medication steadying me, there are still nights when anxiety claws at my ribs, when depression sinks its teeth into my spine, when I feel misplaced in my own life. So I smoke. Because for a moment—just a thin, burning moment—it quiets the storm. Maybe smoking is the small tax I pay to keep myself from collapsing, from snapping, from tipping into madness. The price is bearable. Losing my mind wouldn’t be.”

Mental HealthMental IllnessSmokingSchizophreniaMadness And SanityMedicinesRelief From Pain
Author:Mohit Yenugwar
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“December. The days begin white and glittering with snow---on the roof, the branches of the sycamore, where a robin has taken up residence. It reminds Kate of Robin Redbreast from The Secret Garden---for so many years, her only safe portal to the natural world. Only now does she truly understand her favorite passage, memorized since childhood: "Everything is made out of magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. So it must be all around us." Often, before she leaves for work, she stand outside to watch the sun catch on the white-frosted plants, searching for the robin's red breast. A spot of color against the stark morning. Sometimes, while she watches it flutter, she feels a tugging inside her womb, as if her daughter is responding to its song, anxious to breach the membrane between her mother's body and the outside world. The robin is not alone in the garden. Starlings skip over the snow, the winter sun varnishing their necks. At the front of the cottage, fieldfares---distinctive with their tawny feathers---chatter in the hedgerows. And of course, crows. So many that they form their own dark canopy of the sycamore, hooded figures watching.”

BirdsDecemberWintertimeRobinThe Secret GardenUnborn Daughters
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