Every Sunday, a different kind of sadness.
Sometimes it's like the weight of the world on your chest and you are suddenly Atlas, who is doomed to carry the sky forever you can't breathe you can't breathe and the same thoughts spin in your head over, over, over-
Yet other times, it is more like gently falling rain in the middle of spring. A garden of light flowers, soft sunlight spills into the room, and you are holding on.
Where you are is always the hardest part to live.
What makes a difference is realizing it's also the best part.
The past is dead and unchangeable, the future remains uncertain...let sleeping dogs lie
Nothing matters except what's here, what's now, that your heart is beating and you are so very much alive:
what is beautiful isn't what we always think it is.
L / 18 / SG / undetermined
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Your story is what you have, what you will always have. It is something to own.
last updated: 5 september