The most painful, the only real death, is not the one where you are buried by others rather, its when a man buries himself because of others.

In living a man can only die once. In loving however, the same cannot be said.

A lover is far crueler than any enemy. For when an enemy grievously wounds, more often than not, one dies. With a lover however, the wounds they leave do not kill, but hurt as if they should have anyways.

As a painter to stains the blank canvas with paint, the writer that stains the blank page with ink. Every now and then a different sort of person is born, the kind who manages to stain reality with his dreams, and in doing so, make it his creation.

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.

To find ones self unloved in this world, is the fate he who failed to be the beloved he yearned to meet.