I always thought death was cruel, a silent destroyer of breath, of hope, of life. Now I understand it is physical death, the perception of it, the fear of it, which often saves us; for death marks the end of our flesh causing us to question the future of what we are.

A secret love is beautiful, sweet and sacred when it's just a light infatuation; but when that person reaches over and touches you in the heart, making it alive in a way it has never known, that secret love becomes frightening, because you can never make them love you, you would never want to make them love you...but all the same, no matter which way you view it, they don't love you...and your heart doesn't know how to beat the same.

Maybe the reason it's easier to shrug away one who has made us their secret love is simply because we know our own flaws; we know under the right light, that illusion they believe will fall, and show us for what we really are instead of who they secretly hope us to be.

What is it about a secret love that makes everything they do shine, everything they say sound like a sonnet and every expression they make perfect, when to everyone else you speak to they're quite ordinary. It's a cruel sort of thing.

When I was younger I feared the dark, wondering what evil was watching me. Now it's different, for now it's a game of sneaking the light back on and laughing at how quickly the evil fleas.

I feel really good when I haven't felt good for a long time and then suddenly I feel okay again. Nothing feels better than this.

It amazes me, how many words there are spoken, how many thoughts...yet each speaks freshly to me each time as if they were never once spoken before.