beautiful words

When I tell you I love you, I don’t say it out of habit. I say it to remind you that you are the best thing that has ever happend to me.

Articulacy of fingers, the language of the deaf and dumb, signing on the body body longing. Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body. Your morse code interferes with my heart beat. I had a steady heart before I met you, I relied upon it, it had seen active service and grown strong. Now you alter its pace with your own rhythm, you play upon me, drumming me taut.

One chooses to translate because one discovers in a particular voice from centuries ago, singing from a specific culture that’s virtually imagined, an alignment with cosmic harmonies and a palpitating nowness, pulse of blood, jugular throb of living. This is the lodestone. You carry it in your palm. So this begs the question: how much have we ‘evolved’ and in which ways? How ancient is the human heart within its brittle ribcage?

Traveling is like flirting with life. It’s like saying, ‘I would stay and love you, but I have to go.’

I pretend a lot of shit doesn’t get to me.

You are allowed to be both a masterpiece and a work in progress, simultaneously.

There is nothing more beautiful than nature in the early morning.

If you hear a voice within you say “you cannot paint,” then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.

You’ve been criticizing yourself for years and it hasn’t worked. Try accepting yourself and see what happens.

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

I’ve been in love before, it’s like a narcotic. At first, it brings the euphoria of complete surrender. The next day you want more. You’re not addicted yet, but you like the sensation, and you think you can still control things. You think about the person you love for two minutes then forget them for three hours. But then you get used to that person, and you begin to be completely dependent on them. Now you think about him for three hours and forget him for two minutes. If he’s not there, you feel like an addict who can’t get a fix. And just as addicts steal and humiliate themselves to get what they need, you’re willing to do anything for love.

The reason it hurts so much to separate is because our souls are connected. Maybe they always have been and will be.

Maybe I’m getting tired – I can’t think of anything but nights with you. I want them warm and silvery.

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.

I want to kiss her more than I want air.

I hope it will last forever, but maybe it will be just a few days, and it will be great either way. Because you never stop learning about love. Love is joy, pain, surrender, laughter, pleasure. Love is chemistry. Love is one of life’s greatest adventures. And with love, we’re kids forever, stumbling and learning as life unfolds. And this is why, whatever happens, we must keep our hearts open.

“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.