18
Writing is a form of therapy. Sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear which is inherent in the human situation.
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I’ve come to realize
that I give a piece of my heart (volunatrily or not) to every single person I have once loved. It doesn’t even matter that I don’t love them anymore.
I wonder what they do with the paraphernalia of my heart though. Do they keep it, tucked away in the secret corners of their hearts? Or are these little pieces of my heart lost forever in the distance between us?
No matter.
It’s either I’ve been handing out pieces that are far too generous for my own good or I’ve just got a really small heart.
Because tonight, I feel like there’s nothing left to give.
Because tonight, I feel heartless.
via (eletheowl)
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