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.

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