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.
It was pure bliss and absolute torture at the same time. I was in daze, as if my brain had suddenly packed up and gone on vacation. I could barely string words together in a sentence.
We number our days and divide our seasons. We endlessly define what it is to be in love. When in truth, spring blurs into summer and always has, long before that line was ever drawn.
Yes, we took it all for granted-but isn’t that such a blessed thing? When you’re not even thinking about what you have, because you never imagine you someday won’t.
