Perhaps it is fitting that the best of our kind are so plagued with sadness, having seen so much of it themselves, the desire to inflict the same in those around them never truly takes root.
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.
We all know those wandering souls, those strange people that seeming appear from nowhere at the door step of our existence. They enter into our lives as a guest would ones home, they stay for a time yet unselfishly they do not a make a home of it yet care for it all the same. Like all guests they too must leave, going as they came without any expectation. Yet what remains is the impression they make on you, how they change you.Even in their taking leave they manage to give. It is only then their beauty is truly understood.
People often hear the phrase home is where the heart is, yet people often forget the heart is not so much unlike a home. A home can have many guests who occupy it for a time, like all guests they must eventually take their leave. Yet the one who stays the owner, didn’t do so by theft, for one cannot lift and steal a home nor they can steal a heart as people are apt to say; no they are simply came back to what always to belonged to them, they simply came home. In occupying a heart as a home, they bring warmth and light where once darkness and coldness existed in emptiness.
The religious tomes speak of a god creating man in his own image. I cannot speak of the veracity of that for its matter of faith and not facts. However what I do know is that man and his kind has and continues to, shape this world in his own reflecting both the great cruelties and compassion that resides within him.
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.
The difference between solitude and loneliness, is where loneliness is the result of the inability to appreciate the company of own soul, Solitude is the adoration of it.
In living a man can only die once. In loving however, the same cannot be said.