Feb 23, 2012

"...we could hurt each other even when we weren't trying to,
and that none of us was as perfect as we liked to pretend."
—Meg Waite Clayton (via A Sea of Quotes)
You see, a writer doesn't pretend to be a saint but that does not mean he is entirely a sinner. If he cannot live his life certainly then he cannot write anything of substance. Is it worth it? I ask you: is it worth it, knowing that the man you love cannot return it in the way you would have liked, but still you cannot help feeling a certain tenderness towards him, even as you despise yourself for it? And then you watch him crash and burn, but each time he comes back smiling like a sweet young boy, grime on his face and flashing white teeth, and you melt once more upon seeing that twinkle in his eyes. But the years will take a toll on all of us—and your love may not die completely, but it will be preserved like a pressed flower; and the boy may not become a man entirely, but the twinkle in his eyes will be long gone.

Go watch J. Edgar.

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