Saturday, 14 August 2010

Maturity is not measured in years, or by gray hair, or by lines on the face: it is measured by scars on the heart. To never have suffered heartbreak is to never truly have lived. To expose one's heart repeatedly is an act of sacrifice, kindness, and hope, not one of regret and shame.

Is this the case? Is it truly the case? Or does it display weakness and a poor judgement of character? When I think of the destruction I've seen, I feel a large part of me has shrivelled and died. I'm no longer the laughing child I once was in those old photographs I sorted through. Nor am I the melodramatic teenager, who waited with such hope for life to begin. Nor even that girl in her early twenties who embraced the trials and adventures life had to offer with such a devil may care attitude. In fact I feel more cautious and afraid than I ever felt before.

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