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.

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.

The devil told my mind that my thoughts held no power; and this seemed true until my thoughts I began to speak.

Love is a funny thing, isn't it? The presence of it can bring you to save a foe, the absence of it can make you hurt your own flesh.

Polaroid material has the most beautiful quality - the colors on one side, but then the magic moment in witnessing the image to appear. The time stands still and the act of watching the image develop can be shared with the people around you. In the fast world of today it's nice to slow down for a moment. At the same time Polaroid slows time, it also captures a moment which becomes the past so instantly that the decay of time is even more apparent - it gives the image a certain sentimentality or melancholy.

I dropped my juggling balls and my face grew embarrassed. It wasn't until then that I looked around the circus of life and noted all were too consumed on their own juggling act to see. This is when I learned to have fun, and kick the balls instead.