I used to think there was so much romance in being a tortured soul. There’s something ethereal about someone who walks around wounded. Forever wandering and never arriving; always seeking and never finding.
A barely beating heart bared on a torn and tattered sleeve; silvery scars run across it, echoing memories of self-war and struggle to be brandished in the moonlight.
Starving artists are adamantly more enchanting than sell outs and pop artists. Misunderstood souls are significantly more complex and intriguing than simple, straightforward ones… right?
I used to think the best kind of love was that like the rarity of a falling star; burning, blazing, shining. A second-long spark that brightened life’s darkened sky.
The kind of love where, if you were to close your eyes even for a second, there’d be a good chance you’d miss it.
You know. Your shot. Your opportunity. Your glimpse at eternity, and all the excitement surrounding the fear of chance.
I used to think that. But, I used to be wrong.
You know what’s romantic? Truly and deliberately romantic?
Love that heals, not one that wounds.
Love that stays like the brave, not one that flees like a coward.
One that is freely given, not one that is worked for. One that is honest, not one that is ambiguous.
The best kind of love is a steady love.
The kind that is strong enough to lean on. The kind that you can put your back against. Love that you can put both feet on, without fear that it will ever give in, or give way.
Vast, beautiful, immovable. It allows you to close your eyes, move as slowly as you like, and rest in the fact that it isn’t going anywhere.
Love is less like stars, and more like mountains.