The consensus, I’ve discovered, is that love is worth it. We can take on everything. And the heart, the unknown, the mysterious, the stuff that cannot be proven, wins over our science and reason. We should have known afterall- all those things too weak are the ones able to fit into the parameters of classification and understanding. And all those things too strong, snap the ruler and get stamped “won’t obey rules.”
Love won’t stand still long enough to be measured. The mysterious won’t stay long enough to be completely known. They have better places to be than to give us the satisfaction of finally boasting: “a ha! Love is only 1.5 meters long and the mysterious, my friends, has finally been defined!”
Oh no, they love to see us falter to accurately portray and represent them with our words.
They, like anyone, feel the warm spread of sweet fondness when we try to explain what they mean to us. For (at last) we must admit, they are too big for words, their shapes too curvaceous for an ‘o’ and their points to straight for a ‘t’. They are too fine, too encompassing, too deeply penetrating. We are so lovely and remarkable, that we cannot be copied through words or dance or beauty. And for that, we are both flattered and fulfilled.
I am so overjoyed that you cannot find the words. And so you must refrain to just pulling me as close as you can to your body with urgency. And kissing my cheek with the slowest care and utmost
(Something I wrote on love and mystery before having read Tom Robbin’s lovely words).