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That’s what real love amounts to—letting a person be what he really is. Most people love you for who you pretend to be. To keep their love, you keep pretending, performing. You get to love your pretence. It’s true, we’re locked in an image, an act—and the sad thing is, people get so used to their image, they grow attached to their masks. They love their chains. They forget all about who they really are. And if you try to remind them, they hate you for it, they feel like you’re trying to steal their most precious possession.
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It just goes to show you: you can put nine thousand miles between you and another person. You can make a vow to never speak his name. You can surgically remove someone from your life. And still, he’ll haunt you.
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Music’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. Play it loud enough, it keeps the demons at bay.
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We didn’t need a story, we didn’t need a real world. We just had to keep walking and we became the stories. We became the places.
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If it happened once, it will never happen again. If it happened twice, it will surely happen for the third time.
Paulo Coelho (The Alchemist)
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There’s three sides to every story. There’s one side, there’s the other, and then there’s the truth.
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Ugly is irrelevant. It is an immeasurable insult to a woman, and then supposedly the worst crime you can commit as a woman. But ugly, as beautiful, is an illusion. A matter of taste, a whim, an eye, a beholder, an opinion, a spin, light crossing the frame, paint, projection. The moment. Context.
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