She Cries Wolf

t is not enough to merely believe in love.
For it to be real, it must be born.
Love as an idea is an empty promise.
Love embodied is what moves minds and changes the world.
Hate can change the world as well, but typically acting on one’s hatred is far easier than acting on love.
The risks are never considered when anger is expressed; there is no time.
We leap head first for revenge.
But love can be contemplated for eternity.
The risks are untold, incomprehensibly large.
If it weren’t for the legends of those who have loved that call us like sirens, no one would ever venture near such a trap.
Or maybe it is not the legends of others that sing to us, but the deepest secret of ourselves: that love is the seed we grew from.
Is love then but nostalgia?
Do we wish for retreat to the womb?
No, because love is also what makes the blood course through our veins even now.
It is what makes the Sun shine and the rivers return to the sea.
It is what fills the clouds with tears and makes them cry.
Why is such a beautiful feeling the cause of so much sadness?
If it is not nostalgia –if it carries regret but leaves room to rejoice– then what of it?
The pain of birth accompanies every creation.
Love is transformation.
Love is eternal life, but before we can know it, we must die.

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