To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.
I’ve heard lots of people say: “Our job is to try, then just let God decides.” The way I see it, it’s more like: “Our job is to do our best, then God will see if it’s actually good enough.” Or rather our lecturers or bosses will.
This piece is just beautiful. It burns in all the right places.
You wake up in the morning and scratch the sheet underneath you, reaching with one hand to your alarm with barely enough strength to press the snooze button. “Why is this happening to me,” you think as you imagine your job or obligations in the form of the purple dragon from Sleeping Beauty torching your comfort and well being in life. You pull yourself out of bed and think about all of the reasons why you shouldn’t have to do anything today. It’s not your fault that you stayed up too late last night.
You are the problem.
Driving on the freeway is the most intoxicatingly frustrating thing you consistently do. Every human sitting in their padded chair, pressing their right foot to the accelerator is a little less intelligent than you. They’re a little less attentive than you. They’re driving slower than you, faster than you, or in the…
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