Every new love is a fruit borne by the gift of water sought by subterranean ascetic roots.
Love is a symptom, an outgrowth, a sign of a life much deeper. Our minds and bodies a hollow bone for the fluxing uncontainable marrow of the divine.
The passing of one love is the inevitability of the gravity of a force much greater than ourselves, the falling of fecundity, the gift of death bearing the encapsulation of the future, ripened for foreign palates.
The source remains forever below what can be seen. The sun comes and goes, the seasons circumambulate. Our roots, our beginnings, our formative grasps of the infinite beyond ourselves–these are what give us the promise of our eternal future.
Love is a passageway, not a room with a key, never what it was before, twisting and turning but always moving forward.
Why turn and look backward when everything that came before already lies ahead?


Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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