Humans are, after all, connected by mutual experiences of hurt and triumph. We resist it because we’ve lost sight of the beauty in simply being.
Because most people quit. Most people let the silence press them down, dim their screaming passion to a dull drone. We mustn’t let it.
It’s the dull ache of a hangover, it’s the the clicking of a hashtag, it’s the inevitability of heartbreak.
Nothing in the world is quite as beautiful as emptiness; the way it swells with untouched, unbridled potential – the way it lets in new light, lets in new love.
Our lives are unwritten, our futures are blank, and we are nothing but ink being pressed into lines and shapes and patterns and textured, unfocused scribbles.
I need you to look at me in a way that doesn’t end, in a way that flows just as steadily in autumn as it does in spring.
I became hyper-aware of everything: the time, the day of the week, the way that I looked, the faces of strangers passing by. You see, it had to be perfect.
We love and therefore, we want — and the subject of our affection will either love and want us in return, or they won’t.
We use happiness as an excuse, a way of justifying our perpetual dissatisfaction with life in the middle-class first world and all the trivial struggles that come along with it.