mad

He and she are quiet. Letting the air shifting in an eerie motion. Choked from the inside, he has no word to say. She is all he can think of. The love, the pain, the stubbornness, the sweet things, the attention, the tears, the anger. He holds his breath. The rage suffocates him.

However, the truth slams him. Wakes him. Calms him. He still loves her even if he was mad. He likes her even he was disappointed with her. He cares even when he is angry. He still can’t let her alone.

Maybe angry is another form of love. The bitter side of it. But it is still called love.

It is love.

It is.

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letters to God

Dear God,

In Sunday School they told us what You do. Who does it when You are on vacation? - Jane

Dear God,

I think about You sometimes even when I'm not praying. - Elliot  

Dear God,

I didn't think orange went with purple until I saw the sunset you made on Tuesday.

That was cool! - Eugene  

Dear God,

Are you really invisible or is that a trick? - Lucy

Dear God,

Did you mean for the giraffe to look like that or was it an accident? - Norma

Dear God,

Instead of letting people die and having to make new ones, why don't You just keep the ones

You have now? - Cindy

Dear God,

Who draws the lines around countries? - Nan

Dear God,

The bad people laughed at Noah - "You made an ark on dry land you fool".

But he was smart, he stuck with You. That's what I would do. - Edward

Dear God,

I went to this wedding and they kissed right in church. Is that okay? - Neil

Dear God,

Thank You for the baby brother, but what I prayed for was a puppy. - Joyce

Dear God,

Why is Sunday School on Sunday? I thought it was supposed to be our day of rest. - Tom

:)

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the spell caster

She thought she could master the art of pretending. The art of playing dumb as long as she want. She thought her heart would stay impermeable. She thought she could resist the charm.

But the problem is, love grows. It deepens its roots, extends its branches. It fruits. It blooms. And like all the sweet melodious tune of love, it pins her. Fascinates and spellbinds her. And her heart looses its stiffness. It wasn’t tough hard anymore. It’s flabby. It’s like a child mesmerize by the light of fireflies. Flying low at a bank of a pond.

She wants to touch it. Curious with its warmth. She wants to jar it. Make them hers. She looks and feels and lured.

And finally, the magic enchants her. 

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perks of loving her

He told her that he loves her sincerely, that his love expects nothing from her. Yet he knows it is the most impossible thing to do. His love isn’t that glorious, and noble, and selfless. He wants all of her to be his. Simply because he isn’t a God, but mere a human. A living thing who has needs. And among those needs, there is love. There is she.

He didn’t quite realize when his feelings start to have wings. Soaring by itself. And he starts to need an effort to tame it. He wishes he were the one who colored her day. Who wiped her tears away when things get rough. Because she is special. Someone who makes his heart sing a tune he never heard. Someone really dear to him.

It was an afternoon. And he starts to realize. He expects her. Completely.

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little infinity

“I can’t talk about our love story, so I will talk about math. I am not a mathematician, but I know this: There are infinite numbers between 0 and 1. There’s .1 and .12 and .112 and an infinite collection of others.

Of course, there is a bigger infinite set of numbers between 0 and 2, or between 0 and a million. Some infinities are bigger than other infinities.

A writer we used to like taught us that. There are days, many of them, when I resent the size of my unbounded set.

I want more numbers than I’m likely to get, and God, I want more numbers for Augustus Waters than he got. But, Gus, my love, I cannot tell you how thankful I am for our little infinity.

I wouldn’t trade it for the world. You gave me a forever within the numbered days, and I’m grateful.”

—John Green

My favorite part from TFiOS. And, oh, I hope I can think like Hazel Grace :” to be grateful for her little infinity.

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