There are people who marry for money. And I think they’re in love. They love security. They love a lifestyle. They love comfort.
And there are people who marry for looks. They’re in love too. They love beauty. They love watching others stare. They love showing off.
There are people who love for stability. Because it’s easy. Some for simplicity. Others for complication.
Love is not right or wrong. Not weak or strong. Love is precious. No matter why we fall, our love is perfect. Love is always perfect.
As people, we make two primary mistakes. One is assuming everyone is like us. The other is assuming no one is.
Whoever said “actions speak louder than words” was not a writer.
There is much in the window, but nothing in the room.
You know, “Keep holding on” isn’t always the best advice.
Sometimes, what you really need is to just let go.
I cannot overstate the importance of a moment. A brief hiatus to catch your breath. To let out a heavy sigh. To curl up in an oversized chair.
A moment with a fat round glass of red wine. A blank piece of paper and a favorite pen. A new page in a word document. A new font to go along with it.
A moment to gather your thoughts. To fumble through all the inspirations the day has gifted you. To jot down the starting points. The brilliant opening lines and character names. The underused words you stumbled upon like bacchanalia and davenport and euphonious.
A moment to capture all the details you can put to use. A short Brit with a lisp. A goldfish bowl filled with paper fortunes. A missing cat named Mosey. The sound of wiper blades on a dry windshield. A fleeting moment of déjà vu in the shower. A fading dream. A growing nightmare. An old email from when you first fell in love.
This will be the only time you have. To cater to your dream. To draft something delightful. To give yourself a chance.
You were meant to write the world a story. It’s time to create a moment for yourself.
The shortest distance between two points
Because if I am not next to you, any distance will feel like one million miles.
And every minute will feel like forever.
The truth was never a matter of right or wrong. Of light or darkness. Of knowledge or ignorance. The truth was always much slipperier than that.
It’s what creeps in while you’re sleeping. Filling gaps in memory with some alternate version of history, some derived version of reality. Filling silences with sounds. Sounds perhaps you’ve never heard, but when you wake up, they’re true too.
And we cling to it like there’s nothing else. Even as our bodies decay and our brains are not to be trusted, we hold firmly to the idea that the world is just as we remember. Every last detail in its place. Filed away. Safe and sound and true.
It’s all merely a perspective. Yours, different than mine. No less right. No less real.
The truth is it doesn’t exist. There’s not really any truth at all.
If nothing else, this day is one more to fade your scars.