I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.
The older I get, the more I find that you can only live with those who free you, who love you with an affection that is as light to bear as it is strong to feel. Today's life is too hard, too bitter, too anemic, for us to undergo new bondages, from whom we love [...]. This is how I am your friend, I love your happiness, your freedom, your adventure in one word, and I would like to be for you the companion we are sure of, always.
You can decorate absence however you want - but you're still gonna feel what's missing
Sometimes, when i lie awake at night, I wonder whether I've lived at all. Is it the same for everybody? Do some people have a greater talent for living than others or do some people never live, but just exist?
Wait, why are we already talking about what's next?
I'm not done with right now. In fact, I was just starting to love it. The future will happen eventually, it always does. So what if we just stay here for now. Your tea is getting cold. You had something to tell me. Just be here right now.
I'm not done with right now. In fact, I was just starting to love it. The future will happen eventually, it always does. So what if we just stay here for now. Your tea is getting cold. You had something to tell me. Just be here right now.
i cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.
I despise my own hypersensitiveness, which requires so much reassurance. It is certainly abnormal to crave so much to be loved and understood.
I'm a master of speaking silently, all my life l've spoken silently and l've lived through entire tragedies in silence.
Can't put my thoughts into words I want to scream and pull my hair out I'm so fucking mad
I became bitter and untouchable. I craved affection but even the mere thought of someone caring made my stomach turn.
I do mind, resent really, years wasted with my own neurotic living and my dull mind.