I’m not very social, and I forget that tumblr has chats (or the ability to comment on posts). Sorry, I don’t want to ignore anybody, I have low social energy and a goldfish memory.
I share quotes and thoughts, be free to comment and share your thoughts but not to stir up hotbeds of hate.
If of the quotes there are authors and I forget to tag them, write me and I will add the source. Be happy, be the adults you sought as children, cultivate kindness and make yourself a better person every day.
May roses bloom on your paths,
a hug.

( english in not my first language )

“ the hand hs twenty—seven bonese. each of mine missess each of yours ”

in that stark declaration, i find the quiet agony of separation—a reminder that even as we reach out, the structure of our flesh, the very architecture of our bones, delineates us into islands of solitary experience. i think of marcel proust’s meditation on time and memory, where every tick of the clock reminds us of irrevocable distance between moments, and in this case, between our very selves.

consider the hand: a marvel of evolutionary geometry, a structure wrought with precision and mystery. twenty-seven bones, each a silent testament to the journey of life, each one a cryptic syllable in the language of our corporeal existence. yet, as the phrase suggests, there is a cruel irony in the fact that despite their shared form and function, no bone in my hand finds its perfect counterpart in yours. It is as though the human condition itself is inscribed in our anatomy—a relentless dance of symmetry and divergence.

i recall the words of shakespeare in hamlet: “there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” so too, do we find that the structure of our being belies a hidden complexity. our bones—each slender, each curved—are not mere relics of physical form, but living symbols of our individual narratives. they whisper of our unique journeys, of the paths we have taken and those left unexplored. In their very absence of overlap, there lies a testimony to our social, philosophical, and even anthropological divide.

in the grand tapestry of humanity, our disjointed skeletal melodies speak to the core of what it means to be human. we are, like the fragmented metaphors of t.s. eliot’s modern verse, a collage of broken pieces yearning for connection. our bones, disparate yet intricately intertwined in the dance of evolution, remind us that our differences are not failures of unity but the very pulse of existence—a singular beauty in disunion. each individual, with its unique assembly of twenty-seven bones, carries the legacy of ancestral stories, of struggles and triumphs woven into the fabric of our species.

yet, this very divergence calls us to an introspective inquiry: can the recognition of our profound physical distinctions foster a deeper empathy, a more intricate understanding of the human condition? the sociologist zygmunt bauman might argue that our modern society, in its ceaseless quest for sameness and unity, often forgets that our differences—much like the unmatching bones in our hands—are what truly bind us in the human narrative. they are the silent muses of our cultural and existential dialogues, urging us to celebrate not the mimicry of the identical, but the unique cadence of each individual life.

thus, in this reflective solitude, i am drawn to the inescapable truth: that in our distinct, unaligned structures, there is a sublime call for a communion of souls—a gathering of fractured elements to form a mosaic that is richer and more resonant for its very imperfections. the bones in our hands, forever unpaired, stand as a metaphor for the inherent beauty of our separation and the hopeful promise that, despite the gaps, our lives can converge in a symphony of shared meaning. just hold my hand, and i ’ll hold yours.

Most intimate thing you can do for the one you love is loving them the way they want to be loved

Most intimate thing you can do for the one you love is loving them the way they want to be loved

in the labyrinth of human relationships, love stands as the most sublime yet enigmatic of emotions. if the statement “the most intimate thing you can do for the one you love is loving them the way they want to be loved” ( and i thank the author for this food for thought ) resonates with the sweet melody of respect and devotion, it also harbors the risk of self-dissolution in the other.

loving someone in the way they wish to be loved is an act of profound empathy. it means observing the other without the filter of one’s own will, attuning to their vulnerabilities and deepest desires. marcel proust, in “in search of lost time”, reminds us that “love is space and time rendered perceptible to the heart.” by recognizing the emotional language of the other, our feelings transform into a pure gift, untainted by the selfishness of our own will. in this sense, martin buber’s philosophy encourages us to see the other not as an “it” serving our needs, but as a “you” with whom we establish a genuine relationship of reciprocity.

love, in fact, has today become the place of the radicalization of individualism, where people seek their own self in you, and in the relationship not so much the relationship with the other, but rather the possibility of realizing their own deep self, which no longer finds expression in a technically organized society, which declines the identity of each of us in its suitability and functionality to the system of belonging.

the risk of love that conforms exclusively to another’s desires is that it may become a gilded cage, where one loses oneself in the pursuit of approval and constant adaptation to the other’s expectations. in striving to love another as they wish, one may gradually sacrifice their own authenticity, turning love into a mere shadow that only projects the desires of the other.

authentic love cannot be merely a response to another’s desires, just as it cannot be a mere imposition of one’s own way of loving. antoine de saint-exupéry, “in the little prince”, teaches us that “if you tame me, we will need each other.” true love is an art of balance, a dance of glances in which each person gives without dissolving, shapes without disappearing. only through amorous dialogue and mutual understanding can we build a love that is both intimate and liberating, a bond that does not chain but elevates.

love, like any other human experience, is a language—one that can be spoken in myriad ways. if two individuals do not share the same emotional dialect, their love, despite its sincerity, risks becoming a monologue rather than a dialogue. the philosopher ludwig wittgenstein argued that “the limits of my language mean the limits of my world,” suggesting that an inability to communicate effectively can create an insurmountable divide between two people. a lover may express affection through words, while the other craves gestures; one may seek presence, while the other finds meaning in acts of service. when love languages do not align, misunderstanding looms, and even the most fervent emotions may feel unreciprocated or unseen. true intimacy arises not just from feeling deeply but from ensuring that the beloved understands and feels understood in return.

ultimately, o think the most intimate love is not just that which bends to the other’s desires, but one that understands them without vanishing, in an embrace that respects the duality of lovers and celebrates communion without suffocating individuality.

“Kill the part of you that believes it can’t survive without someone else.”

— Sade Andria Zabala, War Songs

“Kill the part of you that believes it can’t survive without someone else.”

— Sade Andria Zabala, War Songs

there comes a time when you must become the savior of your own soul, after being the executioner. to sever the part of yourself that kneels at the altar of another, that prays for love as if it were air, as if without it you would vanish. you will not vanish. “man is condemned to be free,” sartre declared, and freedom is a violent birth. it demands that you unshackle yourself from the illusion that you are only whole when reflected in another’s gaze. (look in the mirror: this is you. complete yourself. improve yourself.)

i once carried the weight of another’s presence as though it were the axis upon which my world spun. i made a religion of their hands, a scripture of their words, and when they left, i mixed the silence for death. but absence is not death. It is, as rainer maria rilke wrote, “a space to grow into.” the self, once disheartened from dependence, is like a city after a storm—ruined, perhaps, but not beyond repair. beneath the wreckage lies something more sacred than what was lost: the untouched, unclaimed territory of your own becoming.

society teaches us that we are halves seeking completion, that love is an equation and not an expansion. but the truth is, you were born whole. “you must change your life,” rilke again urges, and so you must. to step beyond the grief of separation is not to abandon love but to reclaim it, to let it flow inward rather than spill endlessly into hands that no longer reach for you.

so rebuild the part of you that waits for rescue. leave the part of you that believes love is a lifeline rather than a gift freely given. in its place, build a self that stands unshaken in the face of solitude. Let the loss be a requiem, but not a dirge. let it be the sound of chains breaking, of wings unfurling, of a door—finally, irrevocably—swinging open. before it’s too late, before: “your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing” Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment.

“Loving you was like going to war, I never came back the same.”

— Warsan Shire

“Loving you was like going to war, I never came back the same.”

— Warsan Shire

there are wounds that don’t show, but they shape you all the same. loving you felt like walking into battle with no armor, no shield—just blind faith that love itself might be enough. but wars have no mercy, and neither did we. “war is peace,” orwell once wrote, and somehow, that made sense with you. our love was fire and fallout, a clash of hope and heartbreak, a constant rebuilding of what we kept tearing down.

igrew up hoping love was soft, something warm to rest in. but no one tells you that love can be brutal, that it can make a home inside your ribs only to set it on fire. “love is so short, forgetting is so long,” neruda wrote, and i feel the truth of it every day. some nights, I still hear the echoes of us in the quiet, still feel the ghost of your hand in mine. but ghosts don’t hold you anymore. they just remind you of what’s gone. ( i don’t know if I miss who you were or who i built, with your features, in my hopes).

you were the kind of war that leaves its mark long after the fighting is done. and for a while, i didn’t know who i was without you. i picked through the ruins of us, looking for pieces of myself, but i wasn’t the same person who walked in. and maybe that’s okay. nietzsche warned: “he who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.” and for a time, i feared I had. but i see now—i was never the monster. i was just someone trying to love, trying to survive, trying to make sense of something that never made sense at all.

loving you was like going to war

but war doesn’t last forever, and neither does heartbreak. even the most broken places find ways to bloom again. i don’t look for the past anymore; I’m too busy walking forward. maybe that’s what love teaches us in the end—not just how to endure, but how to rise. to take what’s left and build something new, something softer, something stronger. and so I keep going, not as a survivor, not as someone left behind, but as the architect of my own becoming.

I am not meant for casual love. I was born for soul consuming love and obsession.

I am not meant for casual love. I was born for soul consuming love and obsession.

The kind that devours and exalts. That leaves nothing untouched, nothing half-felt. The kind that Rumi wrote of when he said, “I want to see you. Know your voice. Recognize you when you first come ‘round the corner. Sense your scent when I come into a room you’ve just left. Know the lift of your heel, the glide of your foot. Become familiar with the way you purse your lips, then let them part, just the slightest bit, like a small child opening its mouth to drink milk. Know the joy of your touch.”

I do not belong to the age of moderation, where affection is rationed and desire is polite. My heart has no interest in half-measures, no appetite for the safe, the fleeting, the convenient. Simone de Beauvoir wrote, “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman,” and I would add — one does not fall in love lightly, but rather becomes love, if one dares.

In me lives a hunger for the infinite echo of another soul. A longing that cannot be quieted by passing embraces or words crafted to soothe but not ignite. I am a creature of excess, of storm tides and burning altars. I do not desire; I burn. I do not enjoy; I consume. I do not touch; I drown.

Perhaps it is a curse. Perhaps it is madness. But what madness more noble than to be consumed in love, rather than to pass through life unscathed, dry, untouched by fire? Kierkegaard spoke of it in Fear and Trembling: the knight of faith who leaps into the absurd, who risks everything for what cannot be measured or proven. I understand that leap. I live in that abyss.

To love casually is to sip water from a silver cup when the ocean waits just beyond the shore. To love lightly is to hum a song when a symphony is swelling in your chest. The sociologist Eva Illouz writes of the “commodification of emotions,” the careful bargaining and containment of passion in a world of transaction. But I cannot make love into currency. For me, it is only ever sacrifice or miracle.

I was born to shatter and be shattered. To write letters never sent, to ache in the presence of beauty too large for speech. To hold someone in thought so fiercely they feel it, across miles, across years.

I do not want serenity. I do not crave balance. Give me longing that robs me of sleep. Give me desire that leaves me trembling. Give me absence that cuts like hunger and presence that feels like drowning in light.

I was not made to sip, but to drink deep; not to brush against, but to fall entirely into. I am not meant for casual love. I was born for the wild, holy fire of obsession — and I will not apologize for burning.

to go where you love, and bring love where you go.

to go where you love, and bring love where you go.

What else, in the end, is there? What compass more certain than desire made luminous by kindness? What path more sacred than the one traced by the heart’s longing and the hand’s offering?

We are wanderers, all of us — pilgrims without maps, seeking not places, but states of being. And love — love is the only country worth crossing oceans for. “For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks… the work for which all other work is but preparation.”

But what if the task is not only to love, but to become a vessel for love? To go where you love — yes, follow that gravity, that secret pull that draws you to what is beautiful and tender and strange. But then, having arrived, to bring love where you go: to offer it freely, like breath, like water.

Simone Weil wrote, “Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer.” Perhaps to bring love is to carry attention into the world — to look upon another with such steady presence that they remember themselves as worthy of being seen.

And so I wonder — how many places have we entered empty-handed, demanding warmth, demanding joy, demanding recognition, without once thinking to carry these with us? We cross thresholds with hunger in our eyes, forgetting that we are not only seekers of light but also its bearers.

The sociologist Zygmunt Bauman observed that “In a liquid modern life, relationships are temporary, commitment is fragile.” But if we go where we love and bring love where we go, we defy that fragility. We become, if only for a moment, something solid — a hearth in the storm, a promise that does not dissolve at first difficulty.

I think of Khalil Gibran: “Work is love made visible.” But perhaps presence itself is love made visible. The way we sit beside sorrow without fleeing. The way we listen until the silence has spoken all its names. The way we offer gentleness in a world sharpened by haste.

And so I say: go where you love. But do not arrive empty. Bring with you the small mercies, the unnoticed offerings — a word, a pause, a softness of gaze. Let your footsteps leave kindness behind them, like petals on stone.

In the end, to go where you love, and bring love where you go, is to understand that we are not merely passing through this world, but shaping it — with every look, every word, every silence filled with care.

And if you ask me what remains after all else has crumbled — I will tell you: only this. Only where you went in love, and how much love you brought along the way.

if we're not supposed to dance, then why all this music?

if we're not supposed to dance, then why all this music?

Why the trembling strings of dawn, the hush before the storm, the cicadas’ symphony spun from silver air? If motion were forbidden, why does the wind write elegies in the fields and the sea chant in ceaseless measure?

Nietzsche asked, “And those who were seen dancing were thought mad by those who could not hear the music.” But I would go further: perhaps the madness is not in dancing, but in deafness itself. To deny rhythm is to deny the pulse of the world, the logos that Heraclitus spoke of — that all things flow, all things move, and in movement, all things become.

The music of existence swells around us, and yet we stand with folded arms, as though stillness were virtue. Pascal feared the silence of infinite spaces, but I fear the silence within men’s hearts, the refusal to respond, to sway, to step forward into that unspoken dialogue between self and cosmos.

Sociologist Georg Simmel wrote that “the deepest problems of modern life derive from the claim of the individual to preserve the autonomy and individuality of his existence in the face of overwhelming social forces.” But I wonder: are we not overwhelmed less by force and more by inertia? We are paralyzed, statues hewn from marble, when the universe whispers move.

Shakespeare knew it well when he gave Lorenzo these words:
“The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.”

And yet — the music plays on, indifferent to our stillness. The stars wheel in their silent fugue, the rivers unspool sonatas over stone, and the heart — even the heart — persists in its percussion.

So I ask you: if we are not meant to dance, why all this music?
Why does dawn rise with such tenderness? Why does night fall with such grandeur? Why do words fall into meter, why does rain patter like verse, why does the body, alone in the dark, ache to move without purpose, without audience, only for the strange and holy delight of moving?

Perhaps, as Rilke said, “You must give birth to your images. They are the future waiting to be born.” Perhaps our dance is nothing less than a midwifery of the soul, coaxing from silence the shapes of joy and longing.

I tell you — if we are not supposed to dance, then life itself is a cruel jest. For it sings; it sings in the blood, in the bones, in the trembling edge of being. It sings, and all that remains is to answer.

So I will dance. Even if the world does not watch. Even if the music is heard only by me. Because to stand still, amidst such beauty, is the only true madness.

Fuck sex, let's talk about your insecurities so I can heal those for you.

Fuck sex, let's talk about your insecurities so I can heal those for you.

“To be kind is more important than to be right. Many times, what people need is not a brilliant mind that speaks but a special heart that listens.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

“To be kind is more important than to be right. Many times, what people need is not a brilliant mind that speaks but a special heart that listens.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

What a gentle, unsettling truth.
We live in an age where being right has become a form of conquest, a throne from which we pronounce verdicts, sharp and irrefutable. We are trained from childhood to sharpen our intellect, to argue with precision, to wield words like polished blades. But blades cut. And sometimes, what bleeds is not the body, but the soul.

Being right — what does it bring, in the end? Victory, perhaps. Admiration, possibly. But rarely peace. Rarely intimacy. Rarely that soft communion where two souls sit side by side, not as opponent and adversary, but as fragile echoes of the same hunger to be understood.

I think of Blaise Pascal, who wrote in his Pensées: “The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.” And truly, in the moments that matter most — the whispered confessions, the late-night tears, the trembling silences — it is not the brilliance of our reason that redeems, but the vast, wordless mercy of our presence.

To be kind is to resist the impulse to fix, to correct, to shine. It is to choose humility over triumph. It is to know, as Rilke said, “that each person carries within them a world unknown to all others.” To listen, not to reply, but to receive.

Sociologist Brené Brown reminds us that “rarely can a response make something better; what makes it better is connection.” And connection — true connection — is never born of superiority, but of surrender. The surrender of the need to be right, to instruct, to elevate oneself above the trembling heart that has dared to be vulnerable in front of us.

I think of Atticus Finch, in To Kill a Mockingbird: “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” That, too, is kindness — the quiet discipline of empathy, the refusal to impose one’s certainties onto another’s mystery.

We must ask ourselves: do we wish to be right, or do we wish to be gentle? Do we want to win the argument, or cradle the person? Wisdom is not knowing all the answers, but knowing when answers are not what is needed.

There is a tyranny in the desire to correct. We hide cruelty beneath logic, arrogance beneath knowledge. To be right is easy; to be kind is an art form, a practiced patience, a daily humbling. It asks us to make space, not declarations. It asks us to hold silence, not flood it.

Tolstoy wrote, “Nothing can make life, or the lives of others, more beautiful than perpetual kindness.” And perpetual kindness is not soft or naive — it is, perhaps, the most rigorous discipline of all. It is the conscious refusal to dominate. It is the ability to sit beside another’s suffering without decorating it with explanations.

The brilliant mind dazzles. But the listening heart redeems.

And perhaps the greatest kindness is to let someone finish speaking without interruption. To not rush in with wisdom. To not rush in at all.

The world does not starve for intellect. It starves for gentleness. For hands that do not point but open. For voices that do not proclaim but invite.

To be kind is more important than to be right.

Because what people need — truly need — is not correction, but sanctuary.
Not only instruction, but presence.
Not only answers, but company.

And if I can give that —
if I can be that —
perhaps I will have done something right after all.

nothing hurts when you’re by my side

nothing hurts when you’re by my side

What a simple deception it seems at first glance. Pain, that constant architect of our most intimate ruins, supposedly dissolves in mere proximity. How naïve. And yet… how profoundly true in ways reason struggles to explain.

The body aches, the mind fractures, the soul falters — but presence, true presence, becomes an anesthetic deeper than morphine, older than prayer. As Rainer Maria Rilke wrote: “For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult task of all… the work for which all other work is mere preparation.” And when that love, that labor of infinite attention, rests beside me, suddenly gravity loosens its grip. The unbearable becomes, if not bearable, at least shared.

Sociology teaches us that we are social animals — homo homini socius — that loneliness magnifies distress, that isolation exacerbates both physical and psychic wounds. Émile Durkheim spoke of anomie, a condition of detachment and rootlessness that corrodes the spirit. But what is companionship if not the antidote to anomie? What is your presence if not a thread weaving me back into the fabric of existence, stitching myself to it?

Philosophy, too, grapples with the puzzle of suffering. Schopenhauer claimed that life oscillates between pain and boredom, but perhaps he never truly lay beside someone who simply listened. To be heard without interruption, without correction, without judgment — that quiet mercy disarms the most vicious torment.

Even the great Dostoevsky, whose characters wander through abysses of despair, writes: “To love someone means to see them as God intended them.” And in your presence, I am momentarily restored to that vision of myself, stripped of scars, radiant with possibility. Nothing hurts — not because pain ceases to exist, but because it no longer isolates me. It no longer whispers, “You are alone.”

There is a power in nearness. Science calls it oxytocin; poets call it grace. To feel the warmth of another body near yours is to remember that suffering is neither infinite nor solitary. In The Plague, Albert Camus writes: “What we learn in a time of pestilence: that there are more things to admire in men than to despise.” And what I admire most is not courage in grand battles, but the quiet, unspoken bravery of staying — of sitting with someone in silence, refusing to turn away.

“Nothing hurts when you’re by my side.”
Yes, I believe now: pain’s dominion shrinks where intimacy blooms. It is not the absence of wounds, but the presence of a hand in mine that makes the pain irrelevant, even beautiful in its shared vulnerability.

Marcel Proust wrote: “We are healed of suffering only by experiencing it to the full.” But we cannot — we must not — suffer alone. Your presence makes that experience something different, something noble.

And so, when you are near, I am not untouched by pain — but I am transfigured by it. The sharp edges become softer, the shadows less dense. The ache remains, but it sings now, instead of screaming. It becomes part of a harmony I can endure.

And perhaps that is the most radical solace:
Nothing hurts, not because there is no hurt —
but because you are here to feel it with me.