I am only responsible for my own heart, you offered yours up for the smashing my darling. Only a fool would give out such a vital organ
Submitted by Gypsy Spud 7 months ago
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My ideas come often not at my desk writing but in the midst of living.
Submitted by kidcapricious 7 months ago
There were silences in my head. I could abandon myself completely to the pleasure of multiple relationships, to the beauty of the day, to the joys of the day. It was as if a cancer in me had ceased gnawing me. The cancer of introspection.
Submitted by moon-flower 8 months ago
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish it's source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
Submitted by moon-flower 9 months ago
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.
I am the most tired woman in the world. I am tired when I get up. Life requires an effort I cannot make.
Submitted by Bakeneko over 1 year ago
“And the day came when the wish to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
Submitted by Marci over 1 year ago
My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living.
Submitted by ArkAngel over 1 year ago
No vemos las cosas como son, las vemos como somos nosotros.
Submitted by jennmf over 1 year ago
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
Submitted by Bakeneko about 2 years ago
Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.
Submitted by DanCandy about 2 years ago
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom
Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age.
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
Submitted by wstover24 over 2 years ago
We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.
Submitted by amara over 2 years ago