If any person claims to have loved twice in all their life – they have not loved at all.
LANG LEAVOur emotions pull us in different directions. The stronger the emotion, the greater the pull. Feelings are not always practical, nor do they make any logical sense. That’s just the way it goes.
More Lang Leav Quotes
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She would fondly call him her Frankenstein, this man who was a patchwork of all the things she had ever longed for.
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Every time I see my name, I hear it in your voice.
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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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I saw love in your smile and I recognized it for the first time in my life. But you had a plane to catch and I was already home.
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There is a certain quality to words that when strung in a certain way-has an almost hypnotic effect.
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You are a writer bleeding words onto a page. And the ones who hate you will trample on that page. And the ones who love you will cut you, to keep you bleeding.
LANG LEAV -
Most people want to save the entire world. It’s a lovely thought, and I’m not saying it’s not a noble pursuit-but it’s impossible to save everyone. You just have to pick your little corner of the world and focus your energy there. That’s the only way you will ever make a difference.
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I don’t know if what we had was love, but if it wasn’t, I hope never to fall in love. Because of you, I know I am too fragile to bear it.
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I know there is a terrible distance between us. But our bodies are made of stardust, and we are hurtling through space and time, toward the most beautiful collision.
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Give me something I can write about.
LANG LEAV -
Some pieces will sing to your present, others may echo of your past, and the rest could whisper of your future.
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Souls do not have calendars or clocks, nor do they understand the notion of time or distance. They only know it feels right to know one other.
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In many ways, a book is, in itself, a tiny universe. Each page is like a newly formed galaxy, fashioned from a single, pulsing thought. A book travels for days, for years, sometimes for centuries to meet you at an exact point in time.
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Our love story comes to me in waves, in movie stills and long summer afternoons spent under a sky of incessant blue. I still think of your eyes in flashes of color, your hands in a frenetic, feverish blur-your smile a mosaic of light and shadow. I still find myself lost in those moments of abstraction.
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He gave her such gifts – not the kind that were put in boxes, but the sort that filled her with imagination, breathing indescribable happiness into her life.
LANG LEAV