Were it not for the darkness of night we would not know the stars, were it not for the occasional darkness in our lives we would not know our friends.
People wonder why Hollywood is plagued with depression, some think the fame makes them depressed. I don’t think that’s the case, rather depressed people just happen to make fantastic actors. Being forced to play the role of “everything is alright”, its a role no one wants, but must be played believably for years day in and day out for the comfort of others. For a time they to believe that they are alright, however like any role it is mere illusion, it is not real no matter how desperately they wish it be true.
Houses I find are commonly haunted by the memory of the dead, men however are more often than not haunted by the memory of the living.
In living a man can only die once. In loving however, the same cannot be said.
A writer does not cry, not that his pain is any less or any different, merely the manner of expression. Where another’s pain is witnessed through the running of tears across a face, his tears are different, they are ink, nor do they run across faces, but rather upon pages.
Sometimes we find ourselves not mourning of the dead, that grief is easier. No, mourning the loss of the living, the people that left despite them not departing this world.