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It’s an unimaginable, undeniable, indescribable sort of depth that feelings can reach if left to their own devices. If you’d ask me right now how I’d describe happiness, I’d say it has the smell of cinnamon skin in the scorching summer, of wet rusty coloured leaves in the warm, gentle autumn and maybe the scent of sharp winter air.

It’s all that was, and especially all that could be if daring to allow all resistance to crumble. It’s the secret glances and the stolen touches. It’s the healing words and the comforting embraces every single time that pain was like a melting iceberg, drowning every corner of your being. It’s accepting (even if not liking) the inevitable baggage that we all drag behind us, a little – or a whole lot – heavier the more time passes.

It’s accepting that where you see imperfections in your own being, the other may well see unadulterated beauty; that you can be loved in spite of bad habits and annoying little quirks and for simply being yourself. It’s taking a leap of faith the second you fear it the most.

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