I looked with chameleon eyes upon the changing face of the world, looked with anonymous vision upon my uncompleted self. — Anais Nin. French-born American author (1903–1977)
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.
There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
Anxiety is love's greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.