We swallowed the chaos because we knew we didn't want to be ordinary.
Beauty is not who you are on the outside, it is the wisdom and time you gave away to save another struggling soul like you.
Madness and chaos are self-destructing but over thinking is the suicide.
Why am I compelled to write?... Because the world I create in the writing compensates for what the real world does not give me. By writing I put order in the world, give it a handle so I can grasp it. I write because life does not appease my appetites and anger... To become more intimate with myself and you. To discover myself, to preserve myself, to make myself, to achieve self-autonomy. To dispell the myths that I am a mad prophet or a poor suffering soul. To convince myself that I am worthy and that what I have to say is not a pile of shit... Finally I write because I'm scared of writing, but I'm more scared of not writing.
She was broken, I think it’s because she loved too much and she was always blind to the fact that love too is sometimes broken.
Appreciate the moment of a first kiss; it may be the last time you own your heart.
Society will always be too fragile to accept us for all that makes us beautiful.
The truth is I didn’t need therapy; I just needed to feel loved and know that someone out there craved my attention.
You will write if you will write without thinking of the result in terms of a result, but think of the writing in terms of discovery, which is to say that creation must take place between the pen and the paper, not before in a thought or afterwards in a recasting... It will come if it is there and if you will let it come.
If I lived a million lives, I would've felt a million feelings and I still would've fallen a million times for you.
It’s funny, for all it took was a broken heart and that alone was enough, enough for her to do everything she ever dreamed of.
I had to learn to live without you and I couldn't make sense of it, because I left so much of me inside of you.
Suddenly, everything was beautiful. The way she viewed the world was nothing more but a reflection of herself.
To be human is to be broken and broken is its own kind of beautiful.
She was broken from moment to moment, watching her world collide she felt lost inside herself. She fell apart for a passion that flamed beneath her. She waited and died a hundred times, it dripped from her pores. The moment she let go, she soared over the stillness like the star she was born to be.
It was never about the world being too big, it was more like she was too much for the world to handle.