To love at all is to be vulnerable.
Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.
If you want to make sure of keeping it intact
you must give it to no one, not even an animal.
Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries;
avoid all entanglements.
Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.
But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless,
it will change.
It will not be broken; it will become
unbreakable,
impenetrable, irredeemable.
To love is to be vulnerable.
“At first I did not see you: I did not know
that you were walking with me,
until your roots
pierced my chest,
joined the threads of my blood,
spoke through my mouth,
flourished with me.”
Pablo Neruda
~We found love in a hopeless place.
{and in that moment, I swear we were infinite.}
“At first I did not see you: I did not know
that you were walking with me,
until your roots
pierced my chest,
joined the threads of my blood,
spoke through my mouth,
flourished with me.”
Pablo Neruda
~We found love in a hopeless place.
