And it is strange that absence can feel like presence.

Is falling in love with someone's story the same thing as falling in love with the person himself?

In the end you can't always choose what to keep. You can only choose how you let it go.

I think of how perhaps the best way to fly would be with hands full of earth, so you always remember where you came from.

There is ebb and flow. Leaving and coming. Flight and fall. Sing and silent. Reaching and reached.

If you let hope inside, it takes you over. It feeds on your insides and uses your bones to climb and grow. Eventually it becomes the thing that is your bones, that holds you together. Holds you up until you don't know how to live without it anymore. To pull it out of you would kill you entirely.

I realize now how much courage it takes to choose the life you want, whatever that might be.