It happens like this. One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this stranger than anyone else--closer to them than your closest family. Perhaps this person carries within them an angel--one sent to you for some higher purpose; to teach you an important lesson or to keep you safe during a perilous time. What you must do is trust in them--even if they come hand in hand with pain or suffering--the reason for their presence will become clear in due time.Though here is a word of warning--you may grow to love this person but remember they are not yours to keep. Their purpose isn't to save you but to show you how to save yourself. And once this is fulfilled; the halo lifts and the angel leaves their body as the person exits your life. They will be a stranger to you once more.-------------------------------------------------It's so dark right now, I can't see any light around me. That's because the light is coming from you. You can't see it but everyone else can.
You were you,and I was I;we were twobefore our time.I was yoursbefore I knew,and you have always been mine too.
Before I fellin love with words,with setting skies and singing birds—it was you I fellin love with first.
Like time suspended, a wound unmended-- you and I. We had no ending, no said goodbye; For all my life, I'll wonder why.
Letting him goThere is a particular kind of suffering to be experienced when you love something greater than yourself. A tender sacrifice. Like the pained silence felt in the lost song of a mermaid, or the bent and broken feet of a dancing ballerina. It is in every considered step I am taking in the opposite direction of you.
Saving YouThe darkness takes him over, the sickness pulls him in; his eyes—a blown out candle, I wish to go with him.Sometimes I see a flicker— a light that shone from them; I hold him to me tightly, before he's gone again.
She lends her pen,to thoughts of him,that flow from it,in her solitary.For she is his poet,And he is her poetry.
Stardust If you came to me with a face I have not seen, with a voice I have never heard, I would still know you. Even if centuries separated us, I would still feel you. Somewhere between the sand and the stardust, through every collapse and creation, there is a pulse that echoes of you and I. When we leave this world, we give up all our possessions and our memories. Love is the only thing we take with us. It is all we carry from one life to the next.
Because sooner or later, all kinds of love - crazy love, wild love- fade into the same thing. The love becomes old and predictable -safe.
Audrey, if you had the choice, would you rather be his muse or be in his arms? I want to be both. I know it's the exception rather than the rule, but I can't hepl what I want.
TimeYou were the oneI wanted mostto stay.But time could notbe kept at bay.The more it goes,the more it's gone—the more it takes away.
Without a doubt,I must read,all the booksI've read about.See the artworkshung on hooks,that I have only,seen in books.
There was a feeling of inevitability when I met you. The sense that we would be together; that there would be a moment when you would look at me in a certain way, and we could cross the threshold from friendship into something so much more.We spoke once about lovers who kept finding each other, no matter how many times the world came between them. And I think I had to break your heart, and you had to break mine. How else could we know the worth of what we were given?I think you were always meant to know me a little better than anyone else. And our lives were fated to converge like some cosmic dance. I know there is terrible distance between us. But our bodies are made of celestial light, and we are hurtling through space and time, toward the most beautiful collision.
I used to think people were like lighthouses. That they were yhere to protect you. But they're no. People are lime whirlpools. They pull you in, they drag you under. You have to work so hard just to keep your head above water.
The WandererWhat is she like?I was told—she is amelancholy soul.She is likethe sun to the night,a momentary gold.A star when dimmedby dawning light,the flicker ofa candle blown.A lonely kitelost in flight—someone oncehad flown.
Do you know what it is like,to lie in bed awake;with thoughts to hauntyou every night,of all your past mistakes.Knowing sleep will set it right - if you were not to wake.
I can't believe how hard it is. The pain is indescribable. It's like I've been turned into sandstone and my insides are being slowly hollowed out by a chisel and mallet.
It’s amazing what people create using their pain. Work that is touched by melancholy has its own unique beauty. Even the word ‘melancholy’ is pretty, the way it rolls on your tongue. I think sadness adds something to literature that is unique. It’s an ingredient like . . .” I thought for a moment. “Like salt. Salt has that power to completely transform a dish. I think sadness has that same transformative effect in literature.
We spoke on the phone for the first time that morning. My back against the chest of drawers, my knees tucked under my
Death, like fiction, is brutal in its symmetry. Take this story and strip it down -all the way back- until you are left with two points. Two dots on a vast, blank canvas, separeted by a sea of white. Here, we have come to the first point, where the batj is drawn and the hand is reachinh for the razor blade. I will meet you at the next, by the axle of a screaming wheel, the revolution of a clock, the closing of an orbit.
Some pieces will sing to your present, others may echo of your past, and the rest could whisper of your future.
There is a certain quality to words that when strung in a certain way--has an almost hypnotic effect.
It was from a very young age that I fell in love with this wonderful artifact--the turn of the first page is almost like a sacred ritual to me. Whenever I walk into a library, it is never without some degree of reverence.
There are people I will never know and their lives will still ensue, those that could have loved me so and I'll never wonder who.
For me, that was the death of the word, or; because now, there is no other. It was the end of the word, and; for I love only you.
Anything and everything, the two almost the same--everything says, have it all; anything, one to claim.
It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence.