My Love Proses

Prose 36: Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall

In the ideological sense, it is similar to facility sweepstakes funded by scoundrels who pray for monetary gains from their illegal bidding. It is synonymous to gambling and conjuring the risks despite the uncertainty of reward at the end of each tournament. It is identical to lathering deck of cards without bearing any endurance against haphazards that are far more expected than the positive slate and nearly worser than admitting feasible losses. It is cruelly fondled with the same intensity of reviving the introspect for visible counterfeit and glowing beneath the same shrubs of poisonous forestbed.

In all forms of steepest edges, hovering over the vast ocean without any knowledge about swimming is completely similar to loving someone just for the mere pursuit of wanting to be loved yet never be needed by it. Sometimes, it is fairly executable to relay the languages of affection through letters, gift-giving, quality time, physical touch and all other sorts of collating the stars within the eyes of one person whom we embrace as our entire universe.

To feed the scarcity of communication, to console the rain for repetitive apologies, to cure the wounds of excruciating arguments, to fuel the incense of slowly-fading intimacy; to go through the roundabout tunnel of this drastic voyage seems comparable to clutching one palm on theipedestal while racing every breathe to stay afloat from the ground.

Nevertheless, one should never insinuate the wheels and do the drive just because love looks afraid to be consumed by the ground. Love should never feel too difficult. Love should believe in unleashing the wings to rescue the person from falling downward. Love should not make anyone feel as shrewd as mindlessly tearing the knot of compromised thread. Love is not a pushover on the crowded grocery, a cartwheeler on the abandoned factory, and a doormat on the untidy lobby.

Love conveys bucket of assurance for promises unveiled and consistency ripen below the trunks of spinning time. Love toasts the bread of dedication and pours red wine of fidelity to the glass of the other person who hopes that forever still do exist unless they let it happen for both of them. Love is to love someone entirely by not loving them with partial, half, almost — but complete, full and whole love until the last flight flight of eternity. Love is certain, incorrigible, powerful, deep-rooted, fully enduring and lifelong metamorphosis that no calendar can ever let it end.

Winter, spring, summer and fall — love stays under the same weather of all our seasons.