A woman’s heart is filled with love affairs. If she says she has only ever known one, she is not revealing all her truth. Perhaps she has had but one lover, but love is never so simple as that. She has loved her friends. Her children. Animals. Landscapes. This kind of attachment can happen with a beautiful moment or a complicated idea or a stirring fantasy. It is our nature to have a heart fissured of love stories.
Are we made of love itself? The passion, and conflict. The strength.
To say a woman is made up of all the great love affairs of her life seems no understating commentary on who she may be. On the contrary, it feels like the largest compliment, the grandest meaning. It is to stand upon a mountain and wonder if you carved it out of your own breath. To look in to another’s eyes and radiate with the warmth of a thousand suns. To be possessed by the power of heart song, so enchanted by its tune.
Love is the only meaning I can find here among us. Where other purpose comes up short, love does not. It’s path is not straight or pre-ordained or fated. Instead, it is every passageway. It is illumination, overflowing, spilling, cascading, without set form or destination. It can be everything, and so very often it is.
I love you, I love you, I love you. Let me tell you again and again. Broken, broken, broken forevermore. But that’s how it’s always been.
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