ayendrla
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ presepohne's thread ;; 2024
ayendrla
Love, at its best, is not fusion but fellowship.
Time, that relentless auditor of all human emotions, tests love mercilessly. Infatuation evaporates under routine, but love adapts. It learns new languages: shared silences, familiar laughter, the comfort of predictability. What begins as urgency transforms into endurance. The fireworks fade, but the hearth remains warm.
To love someone is also to be changed by them. Their fears subtly become your concerns; their joys, your triumphs. Love expands the boundaries of the self. You are no longer a solitary citizen of your own inner world but a reluctant diplomat, negotiating emotions that are not entirely your own. This expansion is inconvenient, often exhausting, and profoundly human.
Ultimately, love is not a guarantee of happiness, nor a shield against sorrow. It is a choice to engage deeply with another life, knowing full well the costs involved. It is a refusal to live cautiously. In loving someone, we declare that meaning matters more than safety, that connection outweighs control, and that a life fully felt, even when fractured, is richer than one carefully preserved.
And perhaps that is love’s quiet triumph: not that it lasts forever, but that for as long as it does, it makes us braver, kinder, and unmistakably alive.
ayendrla
To love someone is not merely to feel; it is to participate in a daily act of imagination. Love asks us to see another human being not as they are in the narrow snapshot of a moment, but as a living narrative, unfolding in chapters of contradiction, vulnerability, and growth. It is an emotional commitment to complexity, an acceptance that human beings arrive not as finished monuments but as evolving manuscripts, frequently revised and occasionally torn.
Love, contrary to popular caricature, is not blind. It sees with alarming clarity. It notices the small irritations, the habits that fray one’s patience, the silences that speak louder than words. Yet love persists not because these flaws are invisible, but because they are contextualized. To love is to say, in effect, that perfection is neither expected nor required; presence is enough.
There is a curious democracy to love. It reduces the grand and elevates the ordinary. A celebrated mind is no less endearing for its childish fears; a powerful presence is softened by moments of doubt. Love strips titles and reputations, leaving behind the human core. In this stripping lies its intimacy. You are no longer loved for what you represent, but for what you reveal when pretense falls away.
Love is also, inevitably, an act of faith. Not the blind faith of fairy tales, but the pragmatic faith of adults who understand impermanence. To love is to risk loss, disappointment, misunderstanding, and grief. It is to accept that the very depth which enriches life also sharpens pain. And yet, love persists because a life insulated from loss is also insulated from meaning.
In the Indian philosophical tradition, attachment is often portrayed as a source of suffering. Yet love, when mature, is not possession. It does not seek to cage, but to witness. It allows space for individuality, ambition, and solitude. It understands that two people can walk together without marching in identical steps.
ayendrla
020226 / absent letters which you won't ever find.
cause i' a genius.
last night while reading something about vincent van gogh, i realised he's very similar to you.
except you refuse to be miserable like him and he liked being miserable. or you don't show your miserableness like he did— don't know which one it is, but you both are the two sides of the same coin.
mad, insane, full of grief that transcends into your writing and this mad fuel for something unnamed.
until then, good bye.
i did cry if you're wondering
