It’s a magic that moves mountains, creates art, and starts wars, a magic that allows us to go on, both (literally) helping to create new life and also making it something worth living. At its best, it’s a feeling of everything finally working out. An integration. A completion.
And to lose that - to have it and know it and then to lose it - that takes something awful out of us. We are never quite the same. We recover, we go on, we heal, but we remember. We beat ourselves up with what-ifs and should-haves, trying to pin down the moment where it all went wrong, as if such a singular moment existed. We regret being so vulnerable, putting ourselves out there, and we wonder if it’s ever worth risking ourselves, our hearts, again. (It is.)
It wears us out, love. It wears us out.
via
p.s. you should see it if you haven't already...
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