LVI

Just a hopeless romantic stuck with a cynicism-only vocabulary. I only sound in love when I write it down. Ask me out loud and you wont hear it from me. But that’s the beauty of love, is it not? It makes us into what we are not and who we are not secretly becomes who we are. The fears and doubts and protective outer-layers we’ve successfully sealed ourselves up in are not always broken down, but they are always breached – perhaps imperceptibly, through a deep drain or a secret passage – so that what we are on the outside may appear the same, but on the inside nothing is left untouched with love. The hopefulness, the inexplicable joy, the laughter at nothing at all, and the wonder. Maybe the walls will crumble eventually, burst from the inside out. But if they do not, it matters not. For inside, love is ours, and that is the whole world.

[Image: Akila Berjaoui]