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.
[I’d add to that, it also dies because we expect love to always be this soaring emotion that we feel on a regular basis. We want love to be something it’s not. We want love to take action when in fact love only exists because we make it happen. Love is a verb, not an emotion. It takes effort, our effort. Love is not easy, it takes work.]
I have to write to be happy whether I get paid for it or not. But it’s a hell of a disease to be born with. I like to do it. Which is even worse. That makes it from a disease into a vice. Then I want to do it better than anyone has ever done it which makes it into an obsession. An obsession is terrible. Hope you haven’t got any.
You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.
C. S. Lewis (via lyssahumana)
The world is divided between kids who grow up wanting to be their parents and those like us, who grow up wanting to be anything but. Neither group ever succeeds.