I love you. Remember. They cannot take it
Maybe you can afford to wait. Maybe for you there's a tomorrow. Maybe for you there's one thousand tomorrows, or three thousand, or ten, so much time you can bathe in it, roll around it, let it slide like coins through you fingers. So much time you can waste it. But for some of us there's only today. And the truth is, you never really know.
So many things become beautiful when you really look.
I'd rather die my way than live yours.
I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.
I guess that's what saying good-bye is always like--like jumping off an edge. The worst part is making the choice to do it. Once you're in the air, there's nothing you can do but let go.
It's so strange how life works: You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it's taking forever to come. Then it happens and it's over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.
Love: It will kill you and save you, both
I know that the whole point—the only point—is to find the things that matter, and hold on to them, and fight for them, and refuse to let them go.
You can build walls all the way to the sky and I will find a way to fly above them. You can try to pin me down with a hundred thousand arms, but I will find a way to resist. And there are many of us out there, more than you think. People who refuse to stop believing. People who refuse to come to earth. People who love in a world without walls, people who love into hate, into refusal, against hope, and without fear. I love you. Remember. They cannot take it.
And now I know why they invented words for love, why they had to: It's the only thing that can come close to describing what I feel in that moment, the baffling mixture of pain and pleasure and fear and joy, all running sharply through me at once.
And you can't love, not fully, unless you are loved in return.
Now I'd rather be infected with love for the tiniest sliver of a second than live a hundred years smothered by a lie.
If you’re smart, you care. And if you care, you love.
Who knows? Maybe they’re right. Maybe we are driven crazy by our feelings. Maybe love is a disease, and we would be better off without it. But we have chosen a different road. And in the end that is the point of escaping the cure: We are free to choose. We are even free to choose the wrong thing.
I'd rather die on my own terms than live on theirs. I'd rather die loving Alex than live without him.
We wanted the freedom to love. We wanted the freedom to choose. Now we have to fight for it.
Find the things that matter, and hold on to them, and fight for them, and refuse to let them go.
That is the rule of the Wilds: You must be bigger and stronger and tougher. You must hurt or be hurt.
Live free or die.
