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08 January 2012 @ 07:43 pm
.64  
There will always be sadness and grief in the world. It's a fact: without it, happiness would lose its value. Here's another fact: there will always be people who make you feel immensely unhappy. 

But there will always, always be people who make you feel incredibly joyful. The people who put a smile on your face, even if it's just for a moment– it's a moment more than before. 

We focus so much on the things that make us miserable that we forget the plethora of things out there that have the exact opposite effect. 

We ought not to. 
 
 
29 January 2011 @ 02:55 pm
.63  
See, the thing is, love is such a rare phenomenon. Some of us go their whole lives without falling in love, whilst some of us spend our whole lives dreaming about love. Others have to make do with someone else, and a very select few of us find the one. The person who makes us feel whole and complete, safe and sound, loved.

Love is fleeting and pure and beautiful. Love is something that should be celebrated.

And that is why I will always support you. So you fell in love with another guy– so what? You’re still the same person. You are still you.

I want you to know that when we go out together, you can hold his hand. I want you to know that it’s alright for you to love him.

Ignore the prejudiced homophobic idiots who won’t accept you– they don’t mean anything anyway. They don’t matter.

And if he breaks your heart, I’ll be here for you. Always.

And if he doesn’t, I’ll still be here for you.

Remember this: love is beautiful. You should cherish it.

Twenty years from now you’ll be able to look back and say, “Ah, yes, I’ve been in love before.”

And it will be amazing.
 
 
24 January 2011 @ 08:36 pm
.62  
The best days of my life are the ones that I can’t really remember.

The memories are blurred and sketchy. I remember the bright warm light, and how it used to hit the walls. I remember the sofa, and its coarse rough texture, worn at the edges from years of handling. I remember the smell, indescribable but familiar; it’s the smell of home.

I remember snatches of conversations; I remember the lilt of your voice; I remember your soft laugh, echoing through the room; I remember your fingers, long and slender, wrapped around a wine glass. Your hair was long, brown and wavy; your eyes, rimmed with kohl, were dark brown and beautiful; your rose red lips were curled into a small smile.

I remember home and it hurts.

It hurts because, slowly but steadily, the memories are fading.

I can’t remember where the kitchen sink used to be. It’s little things, really, but the little things could turn into big things. I can’t remember the colour of the walls in the second bathroom.

And just when I think I’ve forgotten, I remember it all.

I remember the rusty red floor, and how the deep rich red would stain the soles of my feet if I forgot to wear slippers. I remember the thin blue curtains from when we first moved in, and then I remember the beautiful thick blue ones that replaced them; I spent afternoons curled up by the windows, with the linen of the curtains gently caressing my cheek. I remember the sunflower yellow of the kitchen wall, bright and cheerful, like the sun shining outside the window. I remember the furniture, all made from a dark wood; I remember the small chair in the kitchen, set out just for me, for when I had to hurry and eat breakfast on the mornings I had school. I remember the sweet fresh taste of pomegranate, unfamiliar and exotic, bursting across my taste buds. I remember the carton of milk I spilled, and how it splashed all over the dark red floor.

I remember, and that hurts even more.

When I think of home, I think of the house I lived in from the ages of four to ten. It wasn’t really a house, more of a very large penthouse. It wasn’t beautiful, and even though it wasn’t really ours, that’s what we made it. We made it a home.

When I think of home, my chest aches, because home will always be that house, and nothing will ever compare.

I don’t say “I’m home” anymore, because, well: I’m not.
 
 
24 January 2011 @ 08:18 pm
.61  
 “Don’t forget who you are, and where you come from,” you say, face turning an ugly red.

I refuse to be defined by a place I know very little of; I am not the person you want me to be.

“Beat the people who beat me down; take revenge,” you say, face twisted into a hideous expression.

I am not you; I can’t fight your battles.

I’m sorry.
 
 
24 January 2011 @ 08:16 pm
.60  
Sometimes when I talk about you, I realise that the person I’m talking about isn’t really you anymore. You’ve changed.

The person I talk about is someone who laughs, someone who loves, and someone who lives. The person I talk about is the you of the past.

It makes me sad; I once knew you better than anyone else in the world. Now, you’re just another stranger in my life.

Maybe you’re the reason I live in my memories; the days I remember are vivid and bright, like that first watercolour we painted together. The days I live through are dull and grey, like the lead of your pencil against the starch white paper.

I miss you: I miss your smile; I miss your laugh; I miss the feel of my hand in yours, uncertain and unsure, but safe and sound.

You used to make me want to live.

Now you just make me wish I was dead.
 
 
 
24 January 2011 @ 07:10 pm
.59  
It feels wrong; everything feels wrong.

Nothing has felt right for a very long time.

Maybe nothing has ever felt right; maybe nothing ever will.
 
 
24 January 2011 @ 06:56 pm
.58  
I wonder, now, if you ever loved me.

You laughed at my jokes, you held my hand, you kissed me goodbye.

But it didn’t hurt, when you walked away.

I wonder, now, if I ever loved you.

I wonder, now, if I have ever loved anyone.