Monday, February 15, 2010

Love is the stuff that dreams are made of

E só porque este artigo é fabuloso e merece ser partilhado...

"I had a dream the other night that my brothers and sister were dead. Tear-sullied and tired, I awoke from the nightmare praying that God would take me instead. It was my love for them that made me despair. But the light of Love’s custody soon softened the terror until all I could feel was my heartbeat hammering against the darkness.

It’s a funny thing, a heartbeat. Sometimes you feel it, and sometimes you don’t, but it’s always there, silently sustaining you with the very stuff that life is made of. A humble hero and a constant companion, Love is patient with me, and it keeps its hold on me. No matter the swagger I walk with, every step I take is somehow instep with the tempo of Love. It’s always breathing in the background, an ambient heartbeat not unlike my own, but owned by no one, rather, resolute in its endlessness.

This Love is not that cardboard imposter of the kind you find stocked high in Hallmark aisles. I call that creature “little-L” love, that’s “little” as in “I have little time for you,” and “L” as in “lackluster,” “lifeless,” or “lugubrious.” No, this “little-L” love is not truly love. It’s not actually love in the same way that leggings are not actually pants. This “little-L love,” like the leggings-only look, possesses all the cuteness of a rotting elephant carcass. And real Love is most definitely not a rotting elephant carcass. Neither is Love a waxy heart-shaped box filled with waxy heart-shaped candies encased in stale and petty adulation. No, that is certainly not love.

So what exactly is the real stuff, this plain old Love?

One thing Love isn’t is easily describable in 800 words or less. No, Love is not a sentence or a paragraph. It’s more like a cello, that stringed sage who in a single note resoundingly sings all the truths of this strange existence. Or like a trumpet laughing beneath a subway grate, happy and profound, distinctive, both imminent and afar.

Love is like the mantle of stars, neither frightened nor silenced by the surrounding desolation, but illuminated by the vast ocean of darkness upon which it sets its sails. It is a gentle ember with an inextinguishable spirit, persevering against the weight of destruction and despair, always with the purpose of finding those who seek safe passage, of being found itself, of undertaking this strange and beautiful sojourn in communion with its voyaging passengers.

Love isn’t easy. For example, I love Herodotus, sure, but spending 700 pages with him in one sitting can put a certain stress on our relationship. I think the same is true of Love. It doesn’t help that we have this habit of constantly colliding into each other, of bumping and bruising and breaking ourselves and others. And the resulting pain often makes us wonder if Love isn’t leading us to a 600-foot plunge off a sheer cliff face into a fiery pit of hungry, flesh-eating bears. Sometimes Love feels more lethal than lovely. Love keeps me up at night—it makes me cry, and it makes me fear. But my courage is childlike—I possess a dreamer’s imagination and a lover’s heart. It is instilled with this heart and mind that every time I fall, I drive my hands down hard onto the ground and I lift myself onto my knees and there, kneeling in love for Love itself, I cry out for it to save me. And somehow, Love always does.

Love sees me coming from a long way off, and it runs out to greet me with a strong embrace. It’s had its hand on my shoulder since before I knew my name. Love sits with me in silence when I don’t feel like talking. It’s funny when I’m sad, and it’s silly when I’m serious. Love rights my ship, for it is my ship, docked and waiting in the places where I harbor my greatest desires. Love sends me sailing off into the unknown of adventure. I often look at Love, not always knowing quite what to think, not even knowing exactly what it is. Sometimes I look at Love with anger and disdain, or with fear and uncertainty, with pain and with doubt. But every day, whether I mean to or not, I stare Love in the face. Every day, I look at Love. And Love smiles back at me.

After yesterday’s Valentine’s Day, forget the gimmicks and commercial gestures, the rose bouquet and the ribbon-covered box. Find the people who make you feel the rhythm of your beating heart, and be to them as Love is and wants to be. Make their hearts beat right back to the tempo of something shared. For Love is the reason. And Love is the end."

Eu não poderia ter dito melhor. E sabe o meu caderninho que divago muito sobre o assunto...


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