Henry James thought “summer afternoon” to be the two most beautiful words in the English language. The hopeless romantic in me wants to agree. He can see the melancholy beauty of the landscape only two words create. He can see a place, a time, he can feel a faint breeze.
And he can also feel love.
I don’t remember a single day when I wasn’t in love. If there’s one thing I’ve been doing longer than writing, that has to be falling in and out of love. I just can’t help myself. Even if it lasts a few minutes, an hour, or the rest of my life, I have to fall in love.
That passion that burns inside my veins, that’s reason alone to live. Love’s simple and profound at the same time. Simple because it’s just our hearts beating fast inside our chests, it’s just a series of physical reactions. And profound because we can give it any meaning we want, because it gives us purpose when we have none, it gives us strength and courage, and it makes us dream.
The pursuit makes us happy, the struggle makes us happy, even when we feel there’s no chance on Earth we’ll ever get the person we love, there’s still an undertone of happiness. We cry, but we’re in love, and that makes it a little bit better.
Getting your heart broken or losing the one you love it’s tragic, I give you that, but the biggest tragedy is not being in love. Apathy, lethargy, this bizarre dream-like state in which nothing makes sense. The feeling that you don’t know where to go, you don’t know what to do.
Boredom. Routine. The free-fall.
No one to catch you.
No one to chase away the gnawing feeling of missing someone you’ve never even met.
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