There is a certain quality to words that when strung in a certain way-has an almost hypnotic effect.
LANG LEAVIt was beautifully worded and painfully read; the things that were written, were those never said.
More Lang Leav Quotes
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The only ones they can turn against you are those who were never with you.
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I am already nostalgic for what we have, even with you still here.
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I had no way of knowing, when I was sitting alone in that tiny bedroom, that in just a few short months, I would meet the love of my life: a man who lived across the ocean from me, in a little house by the sea.
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Maybe we slip in and out of alternate worlds through our minds and our imaginations, picking up scar tissue from other dimensions.
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I don’t know how you are so familiar to me-or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are. How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before, I have loved you before-in another time, a different place, some other existence.
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I learned that writing is the consolation prize you are given when you don’t get the thing you want the most.
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I was loved in my dreams last night. It echoed through me like thunder-I felt it through and through.
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I used to think people were like lighthouses. That they were there to protect you. But they’re no. People are lime whirlpools. They pull you in; they drag you under. You have to work so hard just to keep your head above water.
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Don’t you get it?” he said. “The ones who are afraid of heights don’t trust themselves enough to jump.
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I know love because I am in love. Because of how long I’ve loved. Because of the man I love.
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When someone stirs a world of emotion in you and it’s so intense you can barely stand to be with him.
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I think that bothers me more than anything. That he could look in my eyes and tell me something that is completely contrary to the truth.
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My heart is like a time capsule-it keeps safe the memory of you. I know it’s harder with you gone than if you had never been here at all-but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
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We will remain unwritten through history, no X will mark us on the map; but in books of prose and poetry, you loved me once, in a paragraph.
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Isn’t it strange how much of our lives are interchangeable, how little is truly ours.
LANG LEAV