• I can be terribly shy and sensitive. My many cutesy facial expressions are just a guise — I’m not very spontaneous or bubbly, beyond that. I listen quite intently and notice much more than I let on, but I feel uncomfortable speaking in front of others. I’m trying to get better, though. I choose seats in the corners, preferring often to work alone.
• I like to please people: nearly everything I do stems from a desire to make sure other people are happy. It sometimes reaches such extreme proportions that it becomes a bad thing; I will do things that I’m not supposed to in order to please someone, or I will force others to make decisions so I don’t have to spend time feeling guilty that another person possibly isn’t enjoying him/her self.
• I make up stories and worlds in my mind. I find obscure, insignificant things beautiful. 

I’m going to get back in the groove of writing consistently, daily, wholeheartedly. Sometimes I feel immensely stifled by the creativity surging around me, whether it’s in the words of my friends or just the people on this community. Even as I’m writing right now, I want to take them back. They’re just so mundane… any remotely intelligent teenager could etch these insipid words. But I’m going to keep writing, no looking back, this is a documentary of my life that’s flashing before my eyes and I’m seventeen but within a snap I’ll be twenty-five, then thirty-seven with kids who want to know how their mother was when she was in the romanticized years of high school. And I’ll say, “oh honey, high school’s not supposed to end up like the movies, it’s okay to be shy, it’s okay to be studious,” but inside there’ll be something tingling and gnawing that says, “see i told you so, you were going to regret committing to hermitude… you have no stories to tell, nothing special except talking about the friends you had, but they’re your friends, they’re not you, who the hell were you?!” There will be no last Homecoming dance to talk about, no boy to talk about, no late-night restaurant sprees or crazy stunts to laugh over, no risks to remember, no best friend, no best friend, no best friend to talk about.

I think things would be so much more interesting with a true best friend. 

“As Harry Potter was the only other thing I was passionate about, the doctors gave consent for me to leave the hospital and collect the fifth Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, from the local book shop. I was so ecstatic to have the book and excited to begin reading it, but there was never any hint of your imminent arrival and the way you would change my life so drastically. Luna, you instantly captivated me. I didn’t know why but there was something about you with your upside-down magazine, straggly blonde hair, and the honest, abashed way you stared at people without blinking that fascinated and perplexed me at once. You laughed hysterically at one of Ron’s quips and didn’t stop to excuse yourself and feel ashamed when it became clear that everyone found you strange. Throughout the book, I found myself waiting for your brief appearances and wanting to know more about you and why you were the way you were. You baffled me, not because you were odd (though indeed you were), but because you were… perfect. But it was a different kind of perfect to the perfectly thin, smiling magazine girls I simultaneously idolised and reviled. It was the way you carried your oddness like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t market your oddness as your defining feature the way some insecure teenagers do, in guise of confidence and security. And nor were you oblivious to the awkward and uncomfortable feelings your oddness provoked in others. When, unable to comprehend how you wore your oddness so honestly and unashamedly, your peers reverted to mockery and bullying, you recognised this as a reflection of their own deep-seated insecurity and calmly let them carry on, quite above your head. You weren’t trying hard to present a certain aspect of yourself that would boldly identify you in the world. And that’s when it occurred to me how bizarre and positively ridiculous it was to apply the word “weird” to describe you, when you represented the most natural and unpretentious state possible to be; you were yourself.”

— Evanna Lynch, in part of her Dear Mr. Potter letter, where she describes first reading about Luna while in a recovery programme for anorexia

It is madness
says reason
It is what it is
says love

It is unhappiness
says caution
It is nothing but pain
says fear
It has no future
says insight
It is what it is
says love

It is ridiculous
says pride
It is foolish
says caution
It is impossible
says experience
It is what it is
says love.