I learned that writing is the consolation prize you are given when you don’t get the thing you want the most.
LANG LEAVWe 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.
More Lang Leav Quotes
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When two souls fall in love, there is nothing else but the yearning to be close to the other. The presence that is felt through a hand held, a voice heard, or a smile seen.
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If they were meant to be in your life, nothing cover ever make them leave. If they weren’t, nothing in the world could make them stay.
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Every day I measure the weight of my past against the present and feel the drag of what could have been.
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The greatest injustice I have suffered has come under the pretense of love.
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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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I think the mysterious pull that draws you to another person is identical to the one that moves our eyes upward to the stars.
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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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A Betrayal I cannot undo what I have done; I can’t un-sing a song that’s sung. And the saddest thing about my regret- I can’t forgive me, and you can’t forget.
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Don’t stay where you are needed. Go where you are loved.
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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.
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When you don’t have the whole attention of someone, you find yourself begging for it from everyone.
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I don’t think all writers are sad, she said. I think it’s the other way around- all sad people write.
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For me, that was the death of the word, or; because now, there is no other. It was the end of the word, and; for I love only you.
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In her eyes, the sadness sings-of one who was destined, for better things.
LANG LEAV