Nicklebee

Sometimes we
love with nothing more than hope. Sometimes we cry with everything except tears.

It makes me angry sometimes, it's a visceral thing- how you come to despise your own words in your ears not because they aren't genuine, but because they are..

"I trusted her. I gave her everything. And still, she left.

And that’s the risk we take. It’s not her fault, child. that’s life. that’s love.

They call it falling in love because sometimes you’re caught,

and sometimes you’re not."

 

Love makes you want to be a better man. But maybe love, real love, also gives you permission to just be the man you are.

 

Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.

 

‘I’d know you in the dark,” he said. ‘From a thousand miles away. There’s nothing you could become that I haven’t already fallen in love with’

 

Maybe there aren’t any happily ever afters, or white knights who ride in on valiant steeds to save the day. Maybe, in real life, Prince Charming isn’t always perfect – he’s just as flawed as everyone else in the tale. And that princess, alone in her tower? She’s not perfect either. Birds don’t braid her hair every morning, she can’t serenade wild forest creatures into servitude, and she doesn’t even own a ball gown. But she’s also smart enough to know not to accept poisoned apples from strangers, or pr¡ck her finger on deadly spindles. She doesn’t wait around for a prince to charge in and slay the dragon. Maybe she saves herself and in the end, rides off into her own goddåmned sunset.

Sometimes…the hardest part about letting someone go is realizing that you were never meant to have them.

 

Was there any human urge more pitiful-or more intense- than wanting another chance at something?

We are all a volume on a shelf of a library, a story unto ourselves, never possibly described with one word or even very accurately with thousands. A person is never as quiet or unrestrained as they seem, or as bad or good, as vulnerable or as strong, as sweet or as fiesty; we are thickly layered, page upon lying page, behind simple covers. And love - it is not the book itself, but the binding. It can rip us apart or hold us together.