Always. There is always time for jokes. As my father would say, humour is the spark that lights every dark.
Endings bring new beginnings. Love has many truths. And knights come in all colours.
The question is never ‘who am I?’ It’s ’who do I want to be?
Some wounds were worth bearing for the healing they brought.
Pieces of your heart broke every day when you were a mother.
The only thing I need is for you to be happy. I’ll wait right here, until my last breath, for you to be happy.
We were immortal, did you know that? Did you feel it like me? We had the world at our feet and we were going to live forever. Then came life – growing inside you – and I became mortal.
Whether man or beast, the secrets you kept in the fathoms of your heart always held you to ransom.
I was a coward. I’ve been a coward. So have you. We’ve both got blood on our hands. We’re not the heroes who saved the world, we’re the villains who survived it. I’ve made my peace with that. You should, too, because guilt is a weight you’ll never swim away from.
Then if we make it to tomorrow, we’ll be here to pick up the pieces, and help him carry his load. That’s what we do when we love someone: we don’t stop them from breaking, we help put them back together.
Storms were created when love was bound; set it free, and it could break barriers, and pave new paths.
Hope – or perhaps delusion – was a flame that had stayed lit, even though its scorching light would hurt. It had refused to go out.
Real choices – the ones that changed you and shaped you – were never made with the head, but on the beat of a heart that saw a future it couldn’t live without.
When mortality is the equation, we are but pawns in a game.
Sometimes soul bonds are stronger than blood bonds. Have faith in that.
She had forced herself to learn to read – picked up bits and pieces, here and there, from the very few teachers who had been patient with her; from looking at words while out and about; from television, and from friends. And to avoid the shouting and drug-induced moaning, and the row of male visitors her mum would entertain, she would barricade herself in her room – there’d been no lock – and lose herself in books.
She wasn’t really aware of the song as she sang it. Rather, she slipped through song’s tunnel, down its corridor of reality, until she landed in the seat of the music. It was strangely healing; addictively powerful. She hadn’t expected to become so engulfed by the notes.
A female who spoke her mind and called it like it was, was considered trouble. When a male did it, he was considered a leader and desirable.
Melody perfected was a song in itself – a ballad between notes that held all notes together. It was emotion unfurled and impeccably orchestrated, and if it did its job right, it would have no sense of itself. Melody became the story; its song and the singer, one force.
And she sang. Perhaps she’d never stop, for it was rather freeing, this blissful, empowered place where she was nothing but rhythm and resonance.