Reason.

I’ve always thought that people enter your life for a reason.

That they wouldn’t exist in your immediate surroundings if they weren’t meant to teach you some kind of epic life lesson, as though each person tells a new tale, and weaves themselves a chapter that makes the entire story beautiful.

The good, the bad, and the ugly; it’s all meant to be.

And that’s why it hurts, because agony is merely a treasury trove of memories and happiness is fleeting but the people who cause both will forever mark your heart.

They remain inscribed inside the crevices of your heart, forever tiny little letters that cause you to skip a beat every time they are said out loud.

People are merely a passageway to your ultimate exhilaration, to a happiness that’s forever and a settling that you can only dream about.

Yet we give them too much importance. We forget that everyone is indispensable, a sort of trading system; in with the old, out with the new. And just as you recycle yourself, new people fit like puzzle pieces and leave you moments you can never forget.

They do not make you. You must remember that what they do or say to you, hardly makes you who you are. It’s never who you are.

You make yourself. Nobody else can take that away, and nobody else should, it is a right that has been burnt into your soul. Never let anyone take away who you are.

Stop destroying yourself to make everyone happy, it’ll never bring anything but despair.

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Impulsive.

He’s too shy to tell you. He’s got a heart that blazes for every inch of you, but he will never tell you of how his mind is seeped with thoughts of the sweet nectar that you speak, of the waves that ripple through your hair, of the love that he wants but is too afraid to ask for. 

He’s never going to tell you. You look through your conversations as if this time he’s going to tell you that he loves you but you know those words will never leave his soul. He’s trapped in his own worst fear, and you solemnly acknowledge that even if you say something, he’d never say anything back.

We’re all too scared to tell the people we love how we feel. We’re always hesitating, as if anything bad could ever come from giving love to people instead of the hate that is prevalent in this dismal world. 

Rejection is our only fear, it is the only barrier that keeps us away from bliss and it is tiring. It’s tiring that he won’t tell you how he feels, or that she didn’t kiss you when she had the chance, because what if we stop being friends? What if the whole world finds out?

It’s as though letting people know our happiness is a disaster, but it seems to have become so, and there’s nothing we can do. As though life could end if people found out about the truth, as though there’s a death wish in being passionate. 

There is nothing and no one that can discount your feelings except for you, because when will you realise that love is fickle but it’s meant to be, and if you don’t say something now, you probably never will. 

It’s never been difficult to be impulsive in anger. Why should it be difficult in brazen, unapologetic and beautiful love? 

It shouldn’t.