Every writer lives for the impetuous acts of the heart, mind, and hand.
It is an impulse that enables us, as feeling thinkers, to do what we do. It is in these very moments we feel our veins pump with ink and meaning, desperately dressing our wounds with paper despite knowing it will never be enough to patch the surge of blood.
But we continue in hope that this may stand as evidence that we were once here – living and existing in this moment – feeling what only words can make us understand.
♡ ♡ ♡
If one must profess love, in any way imaginative or conventional, one must know what love is or at least believe enough that one could perceive a fraction of what it could be.