A writer is nothing without an audience
If he writes for no one but himself, he is not a writer but merely someone who whispers to himself through ink. Just as a ballerina morphs into an ordinary girl when there are no eyes to admire her lilt; a singer becomes a stranger when there are no ears to remember every variation, every word, every obscure little thing of his song; an artist is not an artist if he paints for nobody, he is just a slave to his paint and canvas.
A lover is an occupation one cannot choose to have. For to her, he may be just a stranger, a best friend, the quiet classmate, the Nice Guy. He has his nose pressed up against the glass - it's strictly look-but-don't-touch. He imagines spending the rest of his life with her because he hasn't been able to spend even ten minutes alone with the One. Without even crumbs to scrabble for, all he can imagine is the main course. A lover is nothing if he has nobody to love and be loved.
She's nothing but a paper doll if nobody understands her. She's nothing if nobody knows how to tell when she's sad by the silence she speaks, and when she is so deliriously happy that she smiles to herself. She's nothing if she doesn't feel a dozen different emotions everyday, they rise to her throat and she chokes on the words she is afraid to speak. The lies, the truths. Which is easier? Which one will you choose to hear? She's nothing if she's alone, withdrawing from everyone else, imprisoned in her own fragility and insecurities. She's nothing if she's afraid to love, things and people alike, with white-hot intensity and passion. She'll teach you how to say goodbye if you promise you won't say it to her.
A lover is an occupation one cannot choose to have. For to her, he may be just a stranger, a best friend, the quiet classmate, the Nice Guy. He has his nose pressed up against the glass - it's strictly look-but-don't-touch. He imagines spending the rest of his life with her because he hasn't been able to spend even ten minutes alone with the One. Without even crumbs to scrabble for, all he can imagine is the main course. A lover is nothing if he has nobody to love and be loved.
She's nothing but a paper doll if nobody understands her. She's nothing if nobody knows how to tell when she's sad by the silence she speaks, and when she is so deliriously happy that she smiles to herself. She's nothing if she doesn't feel a dozen different emotions everyday, they rise to her throat and she chokes on the words she is afraid to speak. The lies, the truths. Which is easier? Which one will you choose to hear? She's nothing if she's alone, withdrawing from everyone else, imprisoned in her own fragility and insecurities. She's nothing if she's afraid to love, things and people alike, with white-hot intensity and passion. She'll teach you how to say goodbye if you promise you won't say it to her.
~~~
O what needless pain we bear
all because we do not carry
everything to God in prayer"
Labels: introspection
