So Much More

Every day when I wake up, I remind myself that the present is possibility, and the past is a lesson.

My heart really likes your heart.

Ask one hundred people to explain love. And you’ll get one hundred different answers. Because love is like art, it’s subjective.  Fluid.  Ever-changing. Evolving. Case

I didn’t know people could hug your soul with their soul.

Every day is a new day. It took me years to believe that, Faith, but it’s true. Every day is a new opportunity to be the person you’ve always wanted to be. Some days your heart will be in it, and some days you’ll fake it, but eventually it will become a habit and without thinking about it, you will be changed anew. A new attitude. A new outlook. A new perspective. The human mind is a wonderful thing to grant us that kind of change.

Parenthood isn’t genetic, it’s about commitment and love.

Being a good person is partially subjective, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. It’s whatever we deem acceptable, whatever we find ourselves worthy of.

A hug is a display of love that begins on the physical end of the spectrum but bleeds into the emotional end of the spectrum if you let it, if you give into it. It’s the most innocent, pure form of physical human connection there is. It only takes two willing people, who don’t even have to know each other, to participate. Two willing people who want that exchange. It’s so easy, but there are people who never get them. People who never get them,” she repeats softly, it’s a confession.

Love is strange when you think about it. It comes out of nowhere. There’s no logic to it. It’s not methodical. It’s not scientific. It’s pure emotion and passion. And emotion and passion can be beautiful, because they fuel love. I’m

Do good or die trying.

Treating people badly in reaction to how they treat us plays into the ugliness in the world and perpetuates it. Treating people well, not in the hopes that they’ll change, because sometimes people never change, keeps our hearts and minds free from the ugliness.

I just wanted someone to love me. But more than that, I want someone to love. I want reciprocation. I want connection.

I want that someday, bone-jarringly beautiful.

That’s what life is, it’s fucking trying. You don’t get a medal for it. It’s expected, as a member of the human race, that you try.

And my heart shatters for the second time today. It’s blown apart into so many pieces, the shrapnel spread so far and wide, I know what remains will never fit back together again. Puzzles don’t work when you only have half of the pieces. Same goes for hearts. I

So much more than thank you.

Sometimes a blessing is disguised as despair.

I know human beings are made up of cells, but I’m convinced my father was made up of negativity.

He knows what an unbelievably beautiful circumstance he could be in with you,” he adds with a smile.

We all need help. Human-ing is hard to do all by yourself,

Rumors surrounded her like a legend that’s repeated in hushed whispers for generations based on hearsay and speculation. People said she was cruel, I saw strong willed. People said she was aloof, I saw independent. People said she was cunning, I saw goal-oriented. For every warning I was given, I put on rose-colored glasses and looked at her through my own warped, but discriminating, perspective. That is perhaps my biggest flaw, as well as my saving grace; I tend to only see the best in people.

Ask one hundred people to explain love. And you'll get one hundred different answers. Because love is like art, it's subjective. Fluid. Ever-changing. Evolving.

. Temptation leads down a path of destruction

I love the way you look at me, Seamus. No one’s ever looked at me like you do. Your eyes speak to me. When I say something funny, your eyes laugh before your mouth does. When I need encouragement, your eyes tell me I’m good enough. When I’m scared, your eyes hold me. And when you’re about to kiss me, your eyes undress my thoughts.

Authenticity is rare. Either people don’t know who they are, or they’re afraid to share themselves with the world—I

All that’s left is ‘we.

I’m good,” I lie. I’ve learned that lying when my well-being is concerned is easier than trying to navigate the truth. Nobody wants to hear, I’m not good. That just makes everything uncomfortable and then the fact that I’m not good would need to be addressed or ignored. Either option makes people squirm, so I lie. I’m good.