Author has written 5 stories for Supernatural, Twilight, Heart-shaped Box, and Percy Jackson and the Olympians.
Fuck profiles, who cares about my face, my tastes or my name? I'm just here to write and read, so, I'll do that.
The only obsession everyone wants: ‘love.’ People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The Platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you’re whole before you begin. And the love fractures you. You’re whole, and then you’re cracked open.
The white man said, "Colored people are not allowed here." The black man turned around and stood up. He then said: "Listen sir...when I was born I was BLACK, When I grew up I was BLACK, When I'm sick I'm BLACK, When I go in the sun I'm BLACK, When I'm cold I'm BLACK, When I die I'll be BLACK. But you sir, When you're born you're PINK, When you grow up you're WHITE, When you're sick, you're GREEN, When you go in the sun you turn RED, When you're cold you turn BLUE, and when you die you turn PURPLE. And you have the nerve to call me colored?" The black man then sat back down and the white man walked away...
The world is too big for love to be real. There are too many people in the world to ever know, beyond everything, that you are with the right person. That your heart is as swollen as it can be. Think of all the people in China. It is unlikely anyone will ever meet all of them. How can we know for certain, that trapped inside a foreign language and thumping in a foreign heart there isn’t a love that is meant for us. The infinite possibility of existence, its limitless potential, is the proof that we need that love is nothing more than an imagination, a human folly, friendship swollen with self-importance, a final retreat from the storm of possibility. The love of our life could so easily have been someone else. It is random and accidental, haphazard and unsystematic. That which we feel for one person, clinging on to the delusion of destiny, could so easily be felt for a million people should the timing and the meetings and the mutual readiness have coalesced at some other time in some other place. Should someone else have accepted us or rejected us then everything would have been different. And once we know this, we know that all love is a lie. Not honesty but deception. Not heroism but cowardice. An unspoken agreement of mutual consolidation and compromise, a shield from possibility and a bed in which to sleep, nothing more than that.
But I do still miss her.
-The World is Too Big by Daniel Kitson
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