Maybe love isn’t calculated words. Maybe its a walk the line kind of metaphor where tightropes get involved. If you fall off, well the drop varies. I guess height is more of the incentive of the risk you are willing to take. Are you committed to the point of plummeting to your death? Or are you a one step off, one step on kind of lover. Can we really boil these strings of inconsistencies into something edible? Is love something we digest or is it delicate. Do we let it sit on the end of our tongues fighting the urge to swallow it whole or do we give in. In giving in, we leave no room for reservations. Is it possible to run out of love? Its a simple question that plagues so many people. Are we loose wires, improbably connecting with our soul mate in an instance of electricity? Or do we survive in a primitive world of discarding undesirable mates only to instinctually charge after the one we find most appealing. I suppose that in the latter metaphor many mistresses of Channing Tatum should be rightly in their grave. I know you as a reader have picked up this book earnestly searching for a nugget of truth concerning love. So here it is: Love to me is not a pattern. It is not calculated. There is no science formula which one refers to govern that the product of two people will invariable produce eternal bliss. Love is not lust. It is found within 5th grade classrooms, and baby showers, and libraries. I have loved far deeper in terms of words and thoughts and quiet moments than I ever will in avant garde displays of affection. I have seen love in dance. The way two people fall into each others arms supporting not only by flesh but in the mutual progress toward achieving perfection. Perfecting the chaos of pain and hurt and disaster tied together in the joy of relief and accomplishment. “We made it.” But the beauty of love is… that you never will. We are beautifully limited by humanity. A snapshot in time. A once in a lifetime chance to create something much more than ourselves, a legacy within another person. Love is in music. The way notes kiss each other with quiet compliments, making love within the vibrations of our ears, settling down and procreating inspiration in our veins. It is the fabric of oversized sweaters and the color of the sun when it pokes through dark curtains. It is in hot chocolate at 3AM. It is the nooks and crannies of old stores with rocking chairs and ancient owners. It is crossed-legs and lipstick stained cups, and big quilts that would swallow a person whole if left to their own devices. So maybe love is a bunch of tight ropes of rules and regulations, but I think it has nothing to do with remaining on the rope. The free fall, the sickening drop of your stomach of the mis-step that leaves you falling through space. Vulnerable and unprotected toward the eventual heartache that will follow(which it always does), leaving yourself open to all the previous things mentioned. The ones you didn’t plan or expect. The wonderful suprises you didn’t list out on notebook paper bored in class one day as you dreamed or envisioned your wedding day. And that to me is what love is. The one last wonder of the world. The one mystery that if attempted to solve will remain intact, and that only when you stop pursuing it will it avidly pursue you. So chase your tail and tease yourself with words and movies, but love is a creature that only resides in quiet coincidences and sincere gestures. Present always.