Maybe love was …

Maybe love was a way to grow old. Love has put my friends, family, and all things to grow old together. Time is also counted in a different way when we fall in love. Maybe that’s why we feel it so much, no matter if we are a hundred or a little over ten years old. For the ones who did not love and hurt me I decided not to love them anymore, I have to learn the art of letting them go. By the passions that kindled me and then I thought I loved I kept them. For the friendships that have bloomed to me and that later I knew what love was, I fed myself from it and I decided to take it with me forever. For the love that I would start over in the mornings of autumn. For the delays of waiting for the next. For the distances of waiting for the same. Between sums and subtractions, it only remained in my heart like a supernova. As if by having left I knew better what love did to me; what it felt; who I was and what I could be and the exact opposite of this. But, anyway, it allowed me to make futures with all senses, tastes, aromas, and enchantment. Who knows the future might serve, among other things, to unravel the past and rejoice the heart like a bird that we visit in the cage. I believed there were two hearts in me: one to pump my blood and save a place for sorrow. Like the cages. And this other one, still not grown, to debut for happiness and take me along with it. I would lie down all night long hoping to dream of it. For when I wake up I can live it fully. Namaste…❤️☯️

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