And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity.
The struggle to emerge out of the past, clean of memories; the inadequacy of our hearts to cut life into separate and final portions; the pain of this constant ambivalence and interrelation of emotions; the hunger for frontiers against which we might learn as upon closed doors before we proceed forward; the struggle against diffusion, new beginnings, against finality in acts without finality or end, in our cursedly repercussive being.
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