Someday, we’ll run into each other again, I know it. Maybe I’ll be older and smarter and just plain better. If that happens, that’s when I’ll deserve you. But now, at this moment, you can’t hook your boat to mine, because I’m liable to sink us both.
It was strange, really. A couple months ago, I had thought I couldn’t live without him. Apparently I could.
I was crying a little for the boy I had wanted him to be and the boy he hadn’t turned out to be.
But I believe good things happen everyday. I believe good things happen even when bad things happen. And I believe on a happy day like today, we can still feel a little sad. And that’s life, isn’t it?
Love stories are written in millimeters and milliseconds with a fast, dull pencil whose marks you can barely see, they are written in miles and eons with a chisel on the side of a mountiantop.
They should tell you when you’re born: have a suitcase heart, be ready to travel.
There’s a pleasure to loving someone even when you know there’s no chance in them loving you back. The pain I felt let me know I was still alive.
A life isn’t measured in hours and minutes. It’s the quality, not the length.
I wondered if the person who really loves you is the person who knows all your stories, the person who WANTS to know all your stories.
The scent is sweet and meloncholy. A bit like dying, a bit like falling in love.
We aren’t the things we collect, acquire, read. We are, for as long as we are here, only love. The things we loved. The people we loved. And these, I think these really do live on.
It’s like when you take a trip with someone you don’t know very well. Sometimes, you can get very close very quickly, but then after the trip is over, you realize all that was a false sort of closeness. An intimacy based on the trip more than the travelers.