"Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice."

//F. Scott Fitzgerald; The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald

why do people hold onto things that hurt them? why do they hold pain in their hands, allowing it to prick and puncture their flesh, so that it creates holes in the universe, gaps in who they are. so that they can't speak, can't breathe, can't get up because it is holding them down, twisting, clawing and clenching, gnawing at them from the inside out. it is curious sometimes, how the memory of love can linger on so much longer than the living, breathing love that produced these memories. how these memories slip in at the most inopportune moments, so that you have to get up where you fall down and start all over again. it's okay, it's okay, it will be okay.

"Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice."

//F. Scott Fitzgerald; The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald

why do people hold onto things that hurt them? why do they hold pain in their hands, allowing it to prick and puncture their flesh, so that it creates holes in the universe, gaps in who they are. so that they can't speak, can't breathe, can't get up because it is holding them down, twisting, clawing and clenching, gnawing at them from the inside out. it is curious sometimes, how the memory of love can linger on so much longer than the living, breathing love that produced these memories. how these memories slip in at the most inopportune moments, so that you have to get up where you fall down and start all over again. it's okay, it's okay, it will be okay.