This next song goes out to anybody who has ever been told that the way they think or that the way they feel is the wrong way to think or the wrong way to feel. Anybody who has felt betrayed by their friends or their family. Always be yourself no matter what. This song goes out to anybody who’s ever been called crazy, anyone who’s ever been put down. Anybody who’s even been made to doubt themselves about anything in their lives by anybody else. Do not let anybody convince you otherwise of who you are, ok? It’s something that happens all the time and it’s fucked up. To anybody who’s been afraid to stand up to themselves for who they are or who their friends are. There’s no room in the world for intolerance people, it’s 2011 let’s grow the fuck up.

he is not to them what he is to me,” i thought: “he is not of their kind. i believe he is of mine; – i am sure he is, – i feel akin to him, – i understand the language of his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, i have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. […] i must, then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered: – and yet, while i breathe and think i must love him.” jane eyre

Sometimes I have the strangest feeling about you. Especially when you are near me as you are now. It feels as though I had a string tied here under my left rib where my heart is, tightly knotted to you in a similar fashion. And when you go, with all that distance between us, I am afraid that this cord will be snapped, and I shall bleed inwardly.

Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are too impulsive, too vehement: the sovereign hand that created your frame, and put life into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits: that world is round us, for it is everywhere; and those spirits watch us, for they are commissioned to guard us; and if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, angels see our tortures, recognise our innocence (if innocent we be: as I know you are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst has weakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for I read a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear front), and God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness—to glory?