Love is funny, and we learn this as we grow; maturing and becoming more comfortable with its truths rather than misled in ideal.
In the end, love is not about ourselves at all; but is that which we wish and will for others.
Our only controlling is in that, of it, we give away; and there is never promise, or debt, for return. Still, when given in faith, so often it is; and whenever bestowed, sincere and true, upon us by another—always—it is blessing.
It expands and enriches when given away. It contracts and starves when saved; and its wells are a wealth we discover to be inexhaustible if we never look at the ledger and keep giving what we find within.
It is different ways in different seasons, different signs to different souls, not always explainable but, when there, you know.
It’s rarely fairytale and more often simple living of day-to-day—humilities rather than romanced highlight. It is what we do, will, and gift of spirit in hope for the betterment, and blessing, of another’s; and, in the end, we hope—in our lives—we were good sowers of its seed so that the world may grow greater with its beauty in the days when we are gone.
Love is funny, but so must seem most matters of the heart when examined by the mind.