Love is fragile, and we’re not always its best caretakers. We just muddle through and do the best we can, and hope this fragile thing survives against all odds.
It’s funny how where there was once affection, feelings, there now exists nothing. Nothing but a vaguely familiarity.
What is unhappiness?
Clearly, I’m enjoying the book I’m currently reading, hence all of the quotes.
Love is no hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always wild…where this plant springs, men and women are but moths around the pale, flame-like blossom
—The Forsyte Saga, John Galsworthy
