I have an old fashioned heart,
where heartbeats linger in forgotten notes,
where the tune seems no longer at hand,
where even lullabies fall asleep as I pluck the strings.

They say I’m a hopeless romantic because
they never understood the way I play the guitar,
how the waves slam their ears with such rustle
confining itself between silence and grief.

They say I should’ve taken arts instead,
where my hands can grow in the mud of black and blue rainbow,
where time is no ground to suit their tongues,
where I can freely express the soles of my feet
without patterns nor note sheets.

No, they’ll never understand that passion need not to be red.
They only know colors and tastes that swim on the shallow skin
of everything—
they search the ocean at its surface, diving not into the depths of my soul.

Let me tell you a few things about regret…There is no end to it. You cannot find the beginning of the chain that brought us from there to here. Should you regret the whole chain, and the air in between, or each link separately as if you could uncouple them? Do you regret the beginning which ended so badly, or just the ending itself?

Janet Fitch, White Oleander

When we hold each other, in the darkness, it doesn’t make the darkness go away. The bad things are still out there. The nightmares still walking. When we hold each other we feel not safe, but better. “It’s all right” we whisper, “I’m here, I love you.” and we lie: “I’ll never leave you.” For just a moment or two the darkness doesn’t seem so bad.

Neil Gaiman, Neil Gaiman’s Midnight Days