She lacks confidence, she craves admiration insatiably. She lives on the reflections of herself in the eyes of others. She does not dare to be herself.

Anything I cannot transform into something marvelous, I let go.

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish it's source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds, it dies of weariness of witherings of tarnishings.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.