To die this way seems so random, so trivial. I have been robbed of meaning before
being robbed of life. To die in darkness, alone -- for what purpose was I ever alive. It is as if I emerged from darkness into delusion, then sank back into darkness forever.
Powerlessness is such a lure, such a poisonous lure.
I'm perfectly natural the way I am. Why can't you humans ever understand that I might not want to be afflicted with gender?
I didn’t know it then, but I could never turn back once I had learned this. To see something you must cease to be it.
What kind of word is ‘methodal’?” David asked. “A buzzword,” Ashok answered, this time himself. “Methodal. Sounds like a drug.” “That’s what buzzwords are. Tranquilizers.” “Thought suppressants, you mean."
I may not know what my heart truly holds, but who does? I think we're all mysteries, even to ourselves.