20 years from now I wonder what I’ll say when my kids ask me about my first love. Will I talk about your eyes or maybe your smile, the freckles that run across your nose or the way you looked at me like I was everything you needed. I have no idea what I’ll say or how I’ll even feel but by then you’ll just be another name attached to a bunch of memories.

There are years that just pass you by,
There’s no music, no serenity, no gentleness, no poise.
The days— rainy, full of gloom, worthless to the core,
The nights— weightless, treacherous, O so lonely.

See, even chaos won’t come looking for you this joyless day,
Even the villains seem to have lost your address.

Only this silence today— immersed in loss and defeat.
Only the sound of rust and promise of nothing but the end.

This is what gets the revolution brimming in our head, do you know?
This is what turns the wheel of conscience.

A new life will come.
I promise, this universe will conceive a new plan of action for your re-birth.

Find yourself in these days for me.
Lose yourself all over in the dark again.

Drown in this defeat.
Don’t wait for victory without patience.
All you guard is kaput and pointless.
All you will value is moving at its own pace.
Let time die with you.
Let the past have no say in your life ever again.

A new life will come.
I promise, the stars are aligning in your favor as we speak.

—  Akif Kichloo
Pure love for another person, and what people call romantic love, are two different things. Pure love doesn’t manipulate the relationship to one’s advantage, but romantic love is different. Romantic love contains other elements-the desire to be loved by the other person, for instance. If purely loving another was enough, you wouldn't suffer because of unrequited love. As long as the other person was happy, there wouldn’t be any need to suffer because you weren’t being loved in return. What makes people suffer is the desire to be loved by another person. So I decided that romantic love and pure love for a person are not the same. And that by following this you could lessen the pain of unrequited love.
—  Haruki Murakami

We crave your time. We crave you in the quiet of a Sunday afternoon, in the thunder of a Thursday storm. We don’t need much, just bring us your heart, pinned to your sleeve. Just bring us your mind, cupped within your palms. Bring us your closeness, your unhinged ribcage, your dreams and your aspirations. Bring us the key to the world you hold within you, and we will explore it. We will always explore it.

We crave your understanding. We crave the ability to be who we are — the over thinking, daydreaming, messy hearted human beings who have the loudest worlds tucked beneath their skin. We crave acceptance — your arms around us when we need to leave the party, a smile on your face as we walk towards the exit, a nudge that says “It’s okay to be drained. It’s okay.”

We crave your patience. We crave time — time to figure out the feelings that jump and leap and shout inside us. We tread so deeply, we sometimes drown. Love overstimulates us, it plants seeds in our lungs and sometimes it gets hard to breathe. We crave permission to pluck the weeds from within our chests, we crave permission to learn how to wade in our depths, until we know how to swim. We crave your confidence in us, in our ability to dig up what we want to express to you. Because we do care, we do; we just want to be sure of ourselves, we just want to be sure of our heart, before we allow someone to make a home within us.

We crave your distance. We crave room to stretch our limbs, soft moments where nothing is expected of us. This is how we connect with our softness, this is how we connect with our quiet. When this happens, we crave the ability to be alone without hurting you — without causing you to retreat into your mind; without making you believe that you did something wrong or that we have lost interest. Trust me — if we love you, we love you, but we crave your compassion, your empathy, because moments alone with our hopes and our dreams are just as important as the moments we spend with you. They are our strength. They are our comfort, our fuel, our paradise.

But most of all, we crave your knowledge of us. We crave the way you see the small things we do as declarations of our love. See, when we do extroverted things with you, when we come out with you and dance with you and laugh out loud with you, we want you to know what that means. How we love seeing you happy. How it makes it all worth it, even if it makes us weary.

And when we invite you into our heads, when we show you our favourite dog eared books or cry in front of you while watching our favourite movie, when we share with you these extensions of who we are, and what shaped the very foundation of our souls, we want you to know what that means. How hard that is for us. How we try for you. How we will always try for you.

My father had taught me to be nice first, because you can always be mean later, but once you’ve been mean to someone, they won’t believe the nice anymore. So be nice, be nice, until it’s time to stop being nice, then destroy them.
—  Laurell K. Hamilton, A Stroke of Midnight