The real violence, the violence that I realized was unforgivable, is the violence that we do to ourselves, when we’re too afraid to be who we really are.
Love is not something we wind up, something we set or control. Love is just like art. A force that comes into our lives without any rules, expectations or limitations.
He’s my brother. And not by something as accidental as blood… by something much stronger. By choice.
This is what life is. Fear, rage, desire, love. To stop feeling emotions, to stop wanting to feel them is to feel death.
At some point, we all encounter our own parca negra. He is that thing we are afraid of, that thing that stops us from becoming what we know we can become.
What is human? An ability to reason? To imagine? To love or grieve? If so, we are more human than any human ever will be.