What I know of love:

"It’s a rare thing – to meet someone, anyone, who will lose their head for you to the point of doing almost anything for you, and it shows in how much they suddenly care and pay attention to everything related to you… isn’t that rare? Of course it is, so when you come across it and you suddenly become someone’s personal sun you can’t help being drawn to it. And if you’re allowed enough time together then you’ll grow increasingly appreciative, and therefore attached… and then it doesn’t really matter whether you fancied that person from the word go or not because suddenly what you seem to be feeling goes well past that even if it can’t be described beyond that point.

But what am I talking about, here? It was all over before midnight, and like in the Cinderella story my own story morphed back into a pumpkin... I woke up the next day with a start, thinking: “None of it was real, was it? It’s all over now… I’ve woken up.” "

Life in Colours

Only in hindsight do we start to comprehend more fully what has been lost, and what can never be retrieved...

As I stood in front of an easel supporting the weight of a blank canvas, and as I mixed colours together with a thick brush in search of a perfect shade of grey, the teacher said: "Finding the right colour is about striking a balance. You don't want your shade of grey to lean too much towards black, but you also don't want it to lean too much towards white. You want to create a colour that ultimately has no name."

A colour that ultimately has no name... these words reminded me of Life in general, as a whole, beyond the safe - but illusory - conceptions of the mind resting on black and white notions in vain attempts to tame the seemingly chaotic realm in which we are immersed from the beginning.

If all of life rests on balance then where beauty blossoms that beauty must necessarily be smeared with darkness, spoiled and scarred by the ugliest of our world just to reach that balance. For instance, one who is born in the bosom of beauty or closer to perfections (the 'clever', the ' gentle' or 'innocent', the 'beautiful'...) finds himself wishing it was not so, for the path to balance is bound to be strenuous and filled with ample servings of dark omens and occurrences even just to dilute the beauty, or the intelligence - whatever extreme one was in possession of and that kept him too far off the balance. The further away from that balance, the darker the night will become to dilute the light, and vice versa.

Just like colours on a canvas. Until we reach a state that ultimately has no name.