Getting close to finishing The Fault in Our Stars.
I keep thinking about the inevitable horrors of losing people so close to you.
These pains. They make me want to believe — so, so, so badly in the afterlife — and I think I do. I do. Of course I do. But wow. It’s… horrific. What a terribly vulnerable thing it is to love. To love is enter the battlefield of life without armor and without a shield, to risk one of its many stray arrows slicing your heart along with the air. To love is to willingly tie oneself to a train track, knowing that the freight comes — it could be months, it could be years, it could be decades, but it will come. To love is to take a loan with high interest that builds over time — the longer you’ve enjoyed, the more deeply you will pay when the time comes.
And I’d do it gladly. Every. Time.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 