“I would rather hurt, and walk through the flames you leave, than never feel you.”

I would imagine there are days when Superman wakes up, glances at his cape, and wonders when someone will come save him.

We carry in us all we could ever possibly need.

Be gentle, always delicate with every soul you meet, for every single morning you wake up, there is someone Wishing, silently and secretly, that they had not.

You have never had to steal my breath, or take it away, somehow you have always managed to convince me to hand it over freely.

Promise me you will not spend so much time treading water and trying to keep your head above the waves that you forget, truly forget, how much you have always loved to swim.

I have blisters on my feet from dancing alone with your ghost.

I am made from the creaking beams and rusted nails of a lonely vessel on a lonely sea. I am covered and coated, dusted with old salt water and the frail residue of moonlight.

Please don’t break this heart, it’s endured so very much, it survived the fall.

Rise and find the grace, for it is all around you.

Adventure lives a whisper beyond our comfort zones, just half a breathe after No turns into Yes.

Oh what we see when we finally stop looking.

I would rather wear honest tears than the most beautiful and elaborately faked smile.

Lay down your roots now, let them wrap tight around mine, sink deep in the soil.

Wherever I am, whatever I am doing, you are in it all.

I stare at your lips and fall in love with the way they form what you say.

Was I born patient or have the years of waiting taught me to be?

I never knew I lost in love’s game until I was the only one left burning in flames.

A corner draft fluttered the flame And the white fever of temptation Upswept its angel wings that cast A cruciform shadow.

No hatred is so bitter as that of near relations.

Opposition always inflames the enthusiast, never converts him.

Even now, nature is the only flame, on which the poetic spirit feeds; from it alone it draws all its power, to it alone it speaks even in the artificial, in the man engaged in culture.

I’m willing to fly close to the flame.

From life, from the apple cut by the flaming knife, what grain will be saved? My son, believe me, nothing remains, Only adult toil, the furrow of fate in the palm. Only toil, Nothing more.

You know, there’s a big lie in this business. The lie is that it’s okay to go out in flames. But that doesn’t do anybody much good. I may be wrong, but I think Hendrix was trying to come around.