Why do we bother with relationships if most of them fail or fall apart anyway?
There is something delicately beautiful about having loved, and having been loved, just as there is secret loveliness in being broken. What other purpose is there in life than to fully experience being whole, broken, and finally made new? The woods of existence are crowded with brambles and roses alike, and it is our job to find our own trail. There are few better ways to find it than to love.
When we love, we learn to emerge from ourselves. Our trails are never straight, and certainly not completely desolate. Sometimes two trails meet and join for a time before forking again. We have walked another’s trail, left footprints on a path other than our own. For better or for worse, we’ve touched another human life. We’ve lived.
I still cannot help but wonder why we love at all, even knowing all this about brambly trails and woven paths, but I suppose that it’s meant to be that way. I suppose that we’re meant to question. To know everything would be torturous monotony. Life is about indulging in what is, and yet always hungering for more.