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“Let us begin this letter, this prelude to an encounter, formally, as a declaration, in the old-fashioned way: I love you. You do not know me (although you have seen me, smiled at me). I know you (although not so well as I would like. I want to be there when your eyes flutter open in the morning, and you see me, and you smile. Surely this would be paradise enough?). So I do declare myself to you now, with pen set to paper. I declare it again: I love you.” 
― Neil Gaiman

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I’ve been thinking about the people I’ve met throughout my life. The people I’ve come across in the various places I’ve lived. It’s fascinating how we can form relationships with so many different people; some can become a permanent fixture in your life, and some people come and go. But they all have an impact, no matter how big or small, the people you meet have an effect on your life.

I’ve known my best friend for nearly a decade. We’ve stuck through it since grade school, and though I only see her once or twice a year, we’re always able to pick up from where we left off, as if no amount of time had passed. Thank goodness for texting because she shares my snarky humor, and there are times during the day when I think of a brilliant one-liner and she’s the only one I know who would really appreciate it. Those kind of people are rare, and I’m lucky to have such a friendship to lean on. The same goes for my college friends. Try as we might to keep in touch with our monthly email updates, it’s hard when we’re all scattered across the country busy with families and jobs. But I know they would be there for me if I needed them, and vice versa.

Then there are people that have come and gone, like a tide lapping on a sandy shore. They come rushing in, forming a connection and striking a bond over shared interests or experiences. But over time that kinship recedes out, and that’s how it’s supposed to be. Individuals I’ve worked with over the years, classmates, neighbors…not all relationships are meant to stand the test of time, and that’s okay. But for as much time as I’ve spent with them, they’ve been part of the life lessons (good and bad) I’ve accrued.

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I wanna love you

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We`ll never be the same...

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I love you

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“I’m in love with you,” he said quietly.

“Augustus,” I said.

“I am,” he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m in love with you, and I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have, and I am in love with you.”

 

Chapter 10 – The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

WHY THIS BOOK MAKES ME CRY….??!.. :(( ..

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Dear Mr. Waters,

I am in receipt of your electronic mail dated the 14th of April and duly impressed by the Shakespearean complexity of your tragedy. Everyone in this tale has a rock-solid hamartia: hers, that she is so sick; yours, that you are so well. Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / but in ourselves.” Easy enough to say when you’re a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars.

While we’re on the topic of old Will’s insufficiencies, your writing about young Hazel reminds me of the Bard’s Fifty-fifth sonnet, which of course begins, “Not a marble, nor the gilded monuments  / of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; / nut you shall shine more bright in these contents / Than unswept stone, besmear’d with sluttish time.” (Off topic, but: What a slut time is. She screws everybody.) It’s a fine poem but a deceitful one: We do indeed remember Shakespeare’s powerful rhyme, but what do we remember about the person it commemorates? Nothing. We’re pretty sure he was male; everything else is guesswork. Shakespeare told us precious little of the man whom he entombed in his linguistic sarcophagus. (Witness also that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense. We we speak of the dead, we are not so kind.) You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect. (Full disclosure: I am not the first to make this observation. cf, the MacLeish poem “Not Marble, Nor the gilded Monuments,” which contains the heroic line “I shall say you will die and none will remember you.”)

I digress, but here’s the rub: The dead are visable only in the terrible lidless eye of memory. The living, thank heaven, retain the avility to surprise and disappoint. Your Hazel is alive, Waters, and you mustn’t impose your will upon anoth’s decision, particularly a decision arrived at thoughtfully. She wishes to spare you pain, and you should let her. You may not find young Hazel’s logic persuasive, but I trod through this vale of tears longer than you, and from where I’m sitting, she’s not the lunatic.

Yours truly,

Peter Van Houten

❥ The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

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