I’ve realized that a big chunk of people who have children do so just so they can have control over someone else’s life; or for a validation of self-worth (“someone needs me”); or simply just so they can delude themselves into thinking someone out there respects, or at least submits to, their opinion.
How many people still have children out of love? The numbers are waning.
I think this so often.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
As if that blind rage had washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself up to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself - so like a brother, really - I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.