, , , , , , , , , , ,

The people I love are as different as are the ways my heart skips a beat every new time. The reasons why my heart does skip a beat when it does are still a mystery, though, even to myself.

Why does it flutter when it does? My strong belief is that it’s not because of anything in particular, not because of some palpable, obvious quality, not even because of an intangible one, but in spite of everything. The heart is reasonless, so why try to find rationalizations for what it craves?

What is life if not a collection of moments? Moments when you have to decide whether to accept the love you are given or if to continue to run scared from the potentiality of happiness. And no, that happiness will not be perpetual, nor perfect in all contexts and at all times, but it will be perfect in itself and that’s all that matters. Keep turning away in those crucial moments, in the hopes the happiness you’ve been promised time and again will still be there when you run back scared by the emptiness that’s out there, and you will eventually find yourself left behind, abandoned to your fear.

Love in its truest form is the one without reason. It just is.