You are loved just for being who you are, just for existing.
You don’t have to do anything to earn it.
Your shortcomings, your lack of self-esteem, physical perfection, or social and economic success—none of that matters.
No one can take this love away from you, and it will always be here.
Ram Dass
You won’t always,
don’t always
get what you need –
And try as you will,
you won’t always succeed –
And sometimes you’ll struggle,
And sometimes you’ll doubt –
And sometimes you’ll work,
But it just won’t work out.
It’s toil and it’s trouble,
This troubling life –
It’s juggling stress,
And it’s struggle and strife –
It’s bearing the bad times,
And riding the rough –
It’s knowing you tried,
But it wasn’t enough.
But try all the same,
With a hope in your heart –
Be sad but be strong,
And be ready to start –
The bad times will hurt,
And the dreadful times too –
You have to survive them.
It’s all you can do.
—Sam Garland
“Home wasn’t a set house, or a single town on a map.
It was wherever the people who loved you were, whenever you were together.
Not a place, but a moment, and then another, building on each other like bricks to create a solid shelter that you take with you for your entire life, wherever you may go.”
― Sarah Dessen, What Happened to Goodbye
“This place reminds me of Santa’s Workshop! Except it smells like mushrooms and everyone looks like they want to hurt me.”
—Buddy the Elf
Then their father Israel said unto them,
“If it must be so, do this: take of the best fruits in the land in your vessels, and carry down the man a present—some balm and some honey, gum, laudanum, pistachio nuts, and almonds…”
Gen. 43
“If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.”
Carl Sagan, Cosmos
“Some tiny creature, mad with wrath, is coming nearer on the path.”
—Edward Gorey
Every tick-tock is a second of life that passes by, that flees never to repeat itself.
And it holds such intensity, such interest that the only problem is knowing how to live.
May each person solve it as best they can.
—Frida Kahlo
Pour me plaindre ou m’aimer je ne cherche personne;
J’ai planté l’arbre amer dont la sève empoisonne.
Je savais, je devais savoir quel fruit affreux
Naît d’une ronce aride au piquant douloureux.
Je saigne. Je me tais. Je regarde sans larmes
Des yeux pour qui mes pleurs auraient de si doux charmes.
Dans le fond de mon coeur je renferme mon sort,
Et mon étonnement, et mes cris, et ma mort.
Oui ! Je veux bien mourir d’une flèche honteuse,
Mais sauvez-moi, mon Dieu ! De la pitié menteuse.
Oh ! La pitié qui ment ! Oh ! Les perfides bras
Valent moins qu’une tombe à l’abri des ingrats.
—Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, La Ronce
