where the writers are

holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent at throwing it to someone else. you burn your hands first in the process.


i’ve learned of this wisdom not so long ago. i believe in it. it seems like i could not really hurt those people whom i mean to harm, to the point where i have to back down and lick my wounds in silence.


it is so god-damned ironic.


after the initial exhileration of getting even, the worst sets in: the frustration, the futility of it all, the terrible waste. at the end of the day, revenge has changed nothing and benefited no one.


i used to face the mirror and ask myself, motherfucker, what have you done, when is this going to end, when is enough enough. there were no answers. i have turned into the monsters i intend to fight off. i myself have become the predator.


someone very special told me once, behind every great hate is a greater love. otherwise, why spend emotions on antything or anyone you don’t give an ass’ damn for?


paulo coelho once wrote, “live your life with so much love in your heart so that if by mistake you were sent to hell, the devil himself will deliver you to the paradise.”


i would never pretend to be an angel. not now, not in a long time. maybe never.


but shit, i refuse to be the devil either.