It runs parallel to our respective timelines, bubbling along quietly and settling as it pleases, be it on the smile of a stranger, the page of an old book, the pixels of a photograph, or the foam of our Sunday morning coffee.
It exists beyond our physical being, always moving, twisting, and turning,forever adopting form over function.
To view love as a destination would be to sell ourselves drastically short. It would be solidifying that which is inherently fluid, unnecessarily allowing it to be held, lost, bent, or broken. Just imagine the recurring heartache which could be so easily avoided if only we celebrated love as the river, not the vessel — the body which moves us, unwaveringly from beneath, not that with which we immediately travel.
They lie just up ahead, always a little further away than we’re able to reach.
Destinations connote both physical and emotional disembarking, some kind of stagnancy, the end of whichever road we’re traveling at any given time. When we view our heightened ideals of love as points at which to reach, we run the risk of actually reaching them. Our existing relationships falling gently into routine, our love, set to repeat.
It becomes a thirst quenched, a craving satisfied, a passion subsided.
For it be kept alive, we must first ensure that there’s room to grow, places to go, and exciting new territory to discover. The feeling must remain conscious. We must choose to fall in love again each morning, find new creases in the same page, new freckles on the same back, new algorithms to the same familiar smile.
We must ensure that our love remains a journey.
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