We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
The world is not a wish-granting factory.
The highest proof of the spirit is love.
I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.
Truth is the most precious thing we have.
Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
The world is not a wish-granting factory.
The highest proof of the spirit is love.
I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.
Truth is the most precious thing we have.
Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.