A quoi sert la vie si on ne peut plus voir celui qu'on aime? A quoi bon avoir des mains si on ne peut plus le caresser, si on ne peut plus le serrer dans ses bras ? Si son parfum n'est plus dans l'air, à quoi bon même respirer ?
It's hard not to hate; people, things, institutions, when they break your spirit and take pleasure in watching you bleed. Hate is the onlyfeeling that makes sense, but I know what hate does to a man: tears him apart, turns him into something he's not, something he promised himself he'd never become. That's what I need to tell you to let you know how hard I'm trying not to cave under the weight of all the awful thingsI feel in my heart. Sometimes my life feels like a deadly balancing act, when I feel slamming up against what I should do, impulsive reactions racing to solutions miles ahead of my brain. When I look at my day, I realize that most of it was spent cleaning up the damage from the day before. In that life I don't have a future, all I have is distraction and remorse. I buried my best friend three days ago. As cliche as this sounds I left part of me in that box. Part I barely knew, Part I never see again. Everyday is a new box boys, you open it and take a look at what's inside. You're the one who determine if it's a gift or a coffin.
I don't pretend to know what love is for everyone, but I can tell you what it is for me. Love is knowing all about someone, and still wantingto be with them more than any other person. Love is trusting them enough to tell them everything about yourself, including the things you might be ashamed of. Love is feeling comfortable and safewith someone, but still getting weak knees when they walk into a room and smile to you.