I realize now how much courage it takes to choose the life you want, whatever that might be.
In the end you can't always choose what to keep. You can only choose how you let it go.
Every minute you spend with someone gives them a part of your life and takes part of theirs.
Growing apart doesn't change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I'm glad for that.
This is a difficult balance, telling the truth: how much to share, how much to keep, which truths will wound but not ruin, which will cut too deep to heal.
I am trapped in glass and I want to break out and breath deep but I´m too afraid that it will hurt.
I'm falling in love. I am in love. And it's not with Xander, though I do love him. I'm sure of that, as sure as I am of the fact what I feel for Ky is something different.
It is strange how we hold on to the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures.
You cannot change your journey if you are unwilling to move at all.
Love changes what is probable and makes unlikely things possible
If you let hope inside, it takes you over. It feeds on your insides and uses your bones to climb and grow. Eventually it becomes the thing that is your bones, that holds you together. Holds you up until you don't know how to live without it anymore. To pull it out of you would kill you entirely.
Some things are created to be together.
Once you want something, everything changes. Now I want everything. More and more and more.
Writing, painting, singing -- it cannot stop everything. Cannot halt death in its tracks. But perhaps it can make the pause between death's footsteps sound and look and feel beautiful, can make the space of waiting a place where you can linger without as much fear. For we are all walking each other to our deaths, and the journey there between footsteps makes up our lives.
The beauty of dystopia is that it lets us vicariously experience future worlds - but we still have the power to change our own.
Is falling in love with someone's story the same thing as falling in love with the person himself?
Isn't it funny how the memories you cherish before a breakup can become your worst enemies afterwards? The thoughts you loved to think about, the memories you wanted to hold up to the light and view from every angle-it suddenly seems a lot safer to lock them in a box, far from the light of day and throw away the key. It's not an act of bitterness. It's an act if self-preservation. It's not always a bad idea to stay behind the window and look out at life instead, is it?
How can we appreciate anything fully when overwhelmed with too much?
It is one thing to make a choice and it is another thing to never have the chance.
Once you want something, everything changes.
Forgetting lets you live without the pain for a moment but remembering hits hard.
Everyone has something of beauty about them. But loving let's you look, and look, and look again. You notice the back of a hand, the turn of a head, the way of a walk. When you first love, you look blind and you see it all as the glorious, beloved whole, or a beautiful sum of beautiful parts. But when you see the one you love as pieces, as why's, you can love those parts too, and it's a love at once more complicated and more complete.
There is ebb and flow. Leaving and coming. Flight and fall. Sing and silent. Reaching and reached.
When we read dystopia, we root for these people to break free because we are these people; hoping and fighting against things that are bigger than ourselves.
Why are some things easier to write than say?
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