A disastrous flaw in our design is that the heart always defies the brain.
He turned away; he threw himself on his face on the sofa. ‘Oh, Jane! my hope – my love – my life!’ broke in anguish from his lips.
She’d cried over a broken heart before. She knew what that felt like, and it didn’t feel like this. Her heart felt not so much broken as just … empty. It felt like she was an outline empty in the middle. The outline cried senselessly for the absent middle. The past cried for the present that was nothing.
Its just human nature. People forget past and only care about their present and don’t think what will happen in future…
The actuality that the heart does not want to feel, doesn’t negate the certitude that it once felt and will still feel.
I just can’t do it anymore. It’s too painful. It doesn’t mean I’m over you, it means I’m not going to waste the rest of my life being haunted by your memory.
Broken hearts don’t need medical treatment, they need a lover to mend them.
You can’t sweep something broken into a bag and call it whole. It takes repair.
True love was beyond the bars, but a facsimile of it came with no suffering at all.
No perfection can last forever. Time tears at it; wears it down until it’s nothing, just an empty shell.