“The
only thing we never get enough of is love; and the only thing we never give
enough of is love and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you
make. ”
I love you
without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems
or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my
chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.
He’s not
perfect. You aren’t either, and the two of you will never be perfect. But if he
can make you laugh at least once, causes you to think twice, and if he admits
to being human and making mistakes, hold onto him and give him the most you
can. He isn’t going to quote poetry, he’s not thinking about you every moment,
but he will give you a part of him that he knows you could break. Don’t hurt
him, don’t change him, and don’t expect for more than he can give. Don’t
analyze. Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad, and miss
him when he’s not there. Love hard when there is love to be had. Because
perfect guys don’t exist, but there’s always one guy that is perfect for you.
What most people
call loving consists of picking out a woman and marrying her. They pick her
out, I swear, I’ve seen them. As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a
lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle
of the courtyard. They probably say that they pick her out
because-they-love-her, I think it’s just the siteoppo. Beatrice wasn’t picked
out, Juliet wasn’t picked out. You don’t pick out the rain that soaks you to a
skin when you come out of a concert.
Once the
realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite
distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed
in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the
other whole against the sky.
Love is the
voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength
so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun, more last
than star. The only thing we never get enough of is love; and the only thing we
never give enough of is love.
Love is patient,
love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not
dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no
record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It
always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never
fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are
tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For
we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is
in part disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a
child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a woman, I put the ways of
childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we
shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I
am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the
greatest of these is love. And in the end, the love you take is equal
to the love you make.
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