Humans are complicated

I once lived contently in my own company, almost like a bird which sings joyously to itself every dawn. Then love arrived, stealth as a cat, and departed in the night—a thief to my song of self.

Solitude isn’t always pretty. Sometimes it’s just lying in bed and staring at the ceiling listening to the same song over and over again as it slowly loses its meaning. Sometimes it’s how people go mad because they couldn’t tame the darkness that was growing within them over time. Some days it’s a girl waking up without her soul. Some nights it’s a boy falling asleep with his spirit crushed. Sometimes it’s someone wanting to lose themselves to a person, but instead, they push that person away. Solitude only becomes a prison when you do not love yourself. And even if you do love yourself it’s still a very dangerous thing, and the very benefits of it are the stars shining in its purest darkness. Solitude isn’t always pretty but also are the truths that we find within ourselves when we learn to find solace in it.

El hombre que diga que las mujeres no son poema, no se ha atrevido a leerles la piel y fundirle en ella un beso que les marque la vida.

You shouldn’t point out things about people’s appearances if they can’t fix it in ten seconds.