Love and then, love again..

It is fatal to get mad at a flower who dies in its season, even after the gardener has poured essential care to it. The gardener loved the flower in the way love is, even after knowing that it might not live long.

- 

The other day, I realized that love cannot be wasted. It was my aunt who told me that once you decide on anything out of genuine love, it cannot be wrong. If you, then, love in the way that love invites you to, that love, in all its pain and endings, was not and will never be wasted.

Love is subjected to one's own definition, but when I think of it as I write it here, I think of the sacrificial form of it- the one that operates without reciprocation, believes unfailingly, and forgives endlessly. Such is the love that our Father invites us to serve, in the same way that He so loves us. We were vouched for salvation without any ticket we could buy to it, aside from His love.

I reflect on this and the depths of it. It is still difficult to fathom when it is easier to be all on one's own, expecting nothing from anyone, wanting no thing from any other. But there is this beauty to giving relentlessly, setting aside fears and insecurities because your soul so fits another and all the others around you in the way that creates a synchrony in the chaos.

So then, even when it becomes hard and it breaks you, water that flower and cherish it well, celebrate it all ways, and do it again tomorrow and the rest of days.

moonlight -

moonlight -

where the shadows of grief

and the songs of peace

dance in eloquence

 

moonlight -

where the memories are buried

and the future is built

under the skies' influence

 

 

moonlight -

where the tales of fears

and the drafts of hopes

are trapped in a cadence 

 

. . .

 

Anything that didn't have life cannot die, 

Anything that wasn't first conceived cannot disappear

Everything that has life is vulnerable to death,

But not everything that lives dies

Everything that exists may fade, 

But there are things that have years and lifetimes to last, 

While others spend seconds or minutes at most

If anything that has life may die, 

Are the things that have died capable of living again? 

If anything may disappear, 

Are there those that may possibly be still found? 

Are the paths we walk linear? 

Or there are roads that go in rounds? 

For every story that has ended, 

Can beginnings be opened anew? 

For every mark and period that had been slated, 

Can a tale still continue? 

If there is such discovery in our courses, 

Where mishaps and fails become glories

Then, the hopes in our gaps

Are miracles that wait to be known

- Sarakit