My Love Proses

Prose 38: Serenade to the Sonder

you are a poetry. an exhibit art, an iridiscent symphony, the creative masterpiece of each library. you are unconditionally worth it. in every museum of your special life.

perhaps, the foretold superstition was million times more plausibly assertive than the folklore they liperafted about the symbiotic tales of love.

sonder lads on the wheatfield who resist to be frozen with ice splinters are often non-existential today because the majority pawns in fueling fire on coals instead of mining golden treasures over time. as a result, either hearts become easily burnt in ashes or stifled with islandic sediments made by archaeologic remnants.

nevertheless, it is quite primordial to let time lead the love to home rather than to let love lead the time to he taken alone.

Beneath each shore of affairs, all skies paint towers of blue palettes in dissimilar patterns. May they be parched above the incantation of palm trees or entrenched with the supersonic hymn of botanical eagles, love is true when it is the only true that can never be less likely loved.

Alone, we can free ourselves from the incarcerating belief of living lifeless without love.

Alone, we can completely be alive by no longer loving the lesser love that we considered as never the least.

Alone, we can still peacefully breathe, move on, heal and live the love that has made our life worthy for survival.

Alone, the love we need for life is the love that can let our life become more than enough to live.