Бе истина, а лъжа е.
Бе щастие, а сега се учим от плача си.
Бе смисъл, а безумие цари.
Бе приказка, бе магия,
а сега - ЖИВОТ Е.

The worst place to be is where you lose the reasons to be.

Scent of old books a mystery; a secret port of the dreamers.

She wasn’t broken.
She was made up of a thousand tiny little cracks.
She was always trying to keep herself glued together.
But it was hard, she felt too much.
No matter what she did, her emotions seeped through,
sometimes in drips, other times in floods,
She felt everything,
the heaviness of the clouds right before rain,
the rush of the subway cars as they left the station,
the feeling of goodbye as she watched someone walk away,
wondering if it was the last time she would see them,
the feeling of a kiss lingering on her cheek for hours.
She felt the loneliness of the sun as it hung in the sky,
shedding light on the day,
without companion.

And she longed to give as much as the sun.
If she could brighten someone’s day,
bestow warmth were there was cold,
make someone smile, give someone hope,
then for a minute, an hour, maybe even a day,
the cracks would fill with love
and the pain would become only a voice,
reminding her that her pain was important.
She knew how fragile life was, how hard,
and how precious.

She wanted to feel it all.

Вярата е пламък в очите на страданието и огън в очите ми, когато имам силите да продължа.

We need to die hundreds of times to know the meaning of one life.