All my life, my heart has sought a thing I cannot name.
Never have I dealt with anything more difficult than my own soul.
I am picky with whom I give my energy to. I prefer to reserve my time, intensity and spirit exclusively to those who reflect sincerity.
Sometimes you love people in a language they cannot understand.
People don’t tell me what I need to hear. I listen to the unsaid words, observe quietly, read the unspoken words between the lines. The words they think they hide from me. This kind of listening is an art itself.
See me for the depth of my soul. Cherish me for my essence. Respect me for my mind, my purity of heart. Love me, with all my stories and scars included. Love me, for me. And I will make your world beautiful.
More and more I found myself at a loss for words and didn’t want to hear other people talking either. Their conversations seemed false and empty. I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
My heart swings back and forth between a need for routine and the urge to run.
Exposing your dark side doesn’t frighten me, hiding it does.
I have the deepest affection for intellectual conversations. The ability to just sit and talk. About love, about life, about anything,about everything. To sit under the moon with all the time in the world, the full-speed train that is our lives slowing to a crawl. Bound by no obligations, barred by no human limitations. To speak without regret or fear of consequence. To talk for hours about what’s really important in life.
One half of me is a hopeless romantic, the other half of me is so damn realistic.
My spirit is scenic. I encourage you to take the long way when getting to know me.
The only thing worse than not thinking, is thinking like everyone else.
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