There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.
To love is to burn, to be on fire.
Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.
In the end we discover that to love and let go can be the same thing.
Pleasure of love lasts but a moment. Pain of love lasts a lifetime.
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.
Love is an untamed force. When we try to control it, it destroys us. When we try to imprison it, it enslaves us. When we try to understand it, it leaves us feeling lost and confused.
Love is not love until love’s vulnerable.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Love is a thing that is full of cares and fears.
