In these days of faith-cures, and hypnotism, and telepathy, and subliminalities – why, the simple old world grows very confusing. But rarely, very rarely novel.
wtf even is my sexuality
I write romance stories and although I want it to be a beautiful work of art, I am afraid that I will live in the story I created in my mind. It’s all in my mind I know, but sometimes, the romance becomes too ideal and realistic for me that I soon fall for the hero that was just a product of my imagination. I think that is both an fearful obstacle and a proof that somehow, you are succeeding to touch a reader’s heart – even if it is yours.
Knowledge is the name professors give to the confusion they create.
Don’t be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world without end, amen.
Confused? Confusion is good. It’s an excellent place to learn something new from.
You and I are the remains of an unfulfilled legacy, heirs to a kingdom of stolen identities and ragged confusion.
None of these things bothered us excessively; we have always been a family that carries bewilderment like a banner, and odd new confusions do not actually seem to be any more bewildering than the ones we invent for ourselves; moreover, in each of these cases it was easier to believe that nothing had happened, or that it was of no importance anyway.
You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart; imagine my heartbeat when you are in this state.
It’s hard to know whether to laugh or to cry at the human predicament. Here we are with so much wisdom and tenderness, and-without even knowing it-we cover it over to protect ourselves from insecurity. Although we have the potential to experience the freedom of a butterfly, we mysteriously prefer the small and fearful cocoon of ego.