Out of all the deaths that could be, the death of the heart is the most horrible one. I haven't said that, Oscar Wilde did. Or his character did in "Paris, je t'aime" (Père Lachaise Cemetery)
Strangely, this weekend I felt that I did indeed died a little in my heart. It was a decision taken deliberately: Quit prozac and start dying!
Stop questioning the obvious and just take things as they are! No emotions, no feelings, no attachments and no pains.
Stop wanting something and that thing will definitely come to you! Stop desiring a man and he will decide that he fancies you more from that moment, but not a second before! Stop wishing for happiness and it will unexpectedly run you down in front of your own front door! Live for a moment, each day, but die before and let everything behind.
I just died in my heart! I don't know if I will be able to regenerate, I could freeze as such, but I could as well resurrect someday: a more serene and joyful, not butterfly, but mere woman!