The possibility of truth has become a delusion to those who made their own disguise the truth.

Write when you least feel like it,Because that's when you write best.

Questions that will free you might have answers that will imprison you again.

Make sure you don't carry the burden of the whole world on your shoulders, just in case someone needed them to cry.

If you observe the pace of my breaths, you won't need to listen to my words.

Is it crazy to say that I sometimes don't understand what I write but I write it anyway, because maybe someone, somewhere, somehow, would feel what I didn't?

Don't let yourself be amazed by the imagination of a writer and his words, writers are almost all the time in a love-hate relationship with words.

It's ridiculous to think that taking out words will heal hearts,because a palm-sized box is just not enough for the anger of this world.

Silence is a great companion when words are devoid of meanings.

You have to have a plot too, you know? Because without it, your life is less of a story and more of an empty paper.

A deeper thought on the surface is exactly the paradox we need.

I'm an alien in my own world, a writer without words, a musician without a piano, a magician without a wand. I am fooled by infinite words that rush in my blood, yet imprisoned by the very thoughts of silence. I'm a gray green fallow leaf on trees and abandoned on the streets, a never-ending spring season and an eternal autumn. I'm the golden of the sun and the silver of the moon, the fog of dawn and the amber of dusk. I'm the white and the red flag , the obedient and the rebel. I am the coward in the brave, and the child in the man. I am, but a writer.

I'd rather be poor to my bones than be rich with your money, that is like a trigger, ready to be pulled in my face.

At some point in reading, we realize we have to read not just the books that we'd enjoy, but the books that move us, touch us, those that break us and hurt us, those which remind us that we will always be the ignorant of this life. We have to read the books that make us so little, make us a speck of dust or a grain of sand in a galaxy, until we feed our minds with all the knowledge we need, which is infinite in itself.

You make me love books and the words inside them, because they talk about you. I know they do, they tell me that I love you, not as cliché as I write it, but in the warmest, deepest, calmest words I could ever read. I love you, like the books say it. And I'll find a better way to say it one day.

Mostly, we talk to impress. And sometimes we shut up to impress, too.

Please don't question the insane glaresJust give me today,And tomorrow,Tomorrowwe will matter.

And the cobwebs of timewould surrender,dormant, so that the rainbowsof new eras can emergeDespite the hollownessof you.

Ever, could I or could I not count the shadows of your being?

Ever, could I or could I not count the shadows of our being?