l o g o p h i l i a

Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering.

the flesh covers the bone

I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it. To be fed so much love I couldn't take any more. Just once.

I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

I don't care how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, it's enough to know that for some people they exist, and that they dance.

I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.

No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another.

Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.

Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I love her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence in restraining me, than if I had devoutly believed her to be human perfection.

Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful.

Be careful, we are not in Wonderland. I’ve heard the strange madness long growing in your soul. But you are fortunate in your ignorance, in your isolation. You who have suffered, find where love hides. Give, share, lose—lest we die, unbloomed.

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink

I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.

Now, every time I witness a strong person, I want to know: what dark did you conquer in your story? Mountains do not rise without earthquakes.

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

It is a curious thing the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited. And that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it's always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.

She was fierce, she was strong, she wasn't simple. She was crazy and sometimes she barely slept. She always had something to say. She had flaws and that was ok. And when she was down, she got right back up. She was a beast in her own way, but one idea described her best. She was unstoppable and she took anything she wanted with a smile.