“As leaves cover the forest floor in a carpet of vibrant rusts, orange and gold, autumn proves that sometimes death too can be a beautiful thing.”

She is alone, and oh how brilliantly she shines.

But I was brutal and violent in a way they tell women not to be.

Did the girl choose magic, or does magic choose the girl?

Does a heart that is rotted cease to be called a heart?

I will not give up the flowers in my heart for stones just because the world is a hard place. The world is only hard because it needs more flower hearted people.

Nothing will come of forcing yourself to compete your way out of trauma.

Even the day must let go of the sun and allow the light to disappear, so the darkness can live for a while. The only way out of grief is through it.

There is no justice in the world. You have to make your own, because believe me, the cosmos that gifted you the chaos, also created you with care.

You are not his princess. You are your own queen.

Girlhood is confronting the parts of you that you think are too dark for anyone to love.

If he truly loves you, he will love you when you are an ocean breeze but also when you are a summer storm. You were not made to be loved in parts. You were meant to be loved as a whole.

What do you do when you see a love so pure, so completely unwavering other than bow to it?

Burn every memory that does not help you grow. Destruction, too, can be necessary.

There is a difference between holy and pure. Holy is also the way the anger boils inside our throats.

There is a knowing in her, she hears them say, that makes her untamable. She has known since she was a child that she is observant in a way that makes them uncomfortable.

Anxious people are resorceful, they need to know how to keep the sea of panic at bay so they do not drown.

On bitter autumn nights your name lies at the tip of my tongue, as silent memories of us come to haunt me.

Our love was of the autumn- heady, golden and pure. But limited, always doomed to expire.

Autumn leaves don’t fall, they fly.

Everytime the leaves are changing it’s the loneliest time of the year.

What a simple thing death is, just as simple as the falling of an autumn leaf.

What a simple thing death is, just as simple as the falling of an autumn leaf.

Fall is a season to slow down and take stock of what we’re grateful for.

I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.