A life: yours to make except you’re terrified of yourself.
A life: yours to fake until you’re ready to face yourself.
A life: yours.
If you lose a job, there’s a higher calling for you. One that you do not know yet. If you lose a person, there’s someone else loving you already. One that you have not met yet.
“It is never too late for a miracle. The right time for anything to happen is now.”
“Don’t give up now, chances are that your best kiss and hardest laugh and your greatest day are still yet to come.”
I will help you find the pieces. I hope that we will help each other find our pieces. I hope that we are still all we have. I hope that we are it.
We are friend zoned. We are bro zoned. We are family zoned. We are help zoned. We’re rejected. We’re stood up. We’re ghosted. We’re used. And vice versa. We don’t love anymore.
Even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
“Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme,
and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end.”
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
All that will matter is that you have loved and that you have been loved — truly. To see your very self in another, and to be loved by that person or those people — that is a good life.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
Fear, to me, is fuel. Fear is the type of seed a human being should never swallow, because it grows like weeds. I believe that fear should be embraced because it is truly a compass, pushing us towards a life lived outside of boundaries and inhibitions.
Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful
fire! More room in your heart for love.
For the birds who own
nothing – the reason they can fly.
Messy, sticky, crossed out words on a brand new sheet of paper; growth is anything but neat. You are not your mistakes. You are the symphony that plays after months, years, days, of mistake-ridden practice. You are the musician’s bloody fingers after playing the same chords for an entire day.