There is no relief in realizing how frightening it is to dissolve into an inky river after the person who’s supposed to pull you out of the flowing stream suddenly eclipses. Your head, the only part of your body above the cold, dark water, feels as solitary as the moments of profound regret. You’re alone with your own self-destructive thoughts, and you are going to freeze.

When are struck by our own thanklessness? Pretty much never. We’re unbelievers, enamored of debris and the need of an audience. Even self-loathing becomes a narcissistic spectacle.

We are selectively and blindly ungrateful. We unconsciously decide who to appreciate and who to disown, and that usually changes each day. We are superficial by nature, only concerned with events and not with their consequences. We are selfish by nature, only concerned with people in relation to us and not from their own point of view.

We’re bad at remembering things, that’s why we write in the first place, and also that’s why we become artists, so we stop losing important information. I like to hold on to things I love after they’re gone.

Precautions become the law of the matter against beautiful hindrances. Our vocabulary is so limited when we address them, we repeat the same words until they weaken and die. On top of it, we are afraid of writing ill-written letters to them.

1 cup of secrets, 1/2 cup of anxiety, a tablespoon of disability. Stir and drink on an empty soul.

Silence.

When we lose someone, the smallest things bring to our mind the memory of the tragedy, and they also remind us that nothing protects existence. Everything is irreversible and irrevocable.

When I was a kid no one told me that some people show love by tearing the people they love down. I would have thought then that it was a ridiculous idea, until I started finding out that it’s not an exception. A lot of people understand love exclusively when they make the people they love suffer. It’s disgusting.