What can be more muddled than a heart that has wholly surrendered itself to reason?
Drafting a blueprint for love’s advancement is as futile as any attempt to enumerate precisely the number of stars beyond those we can already see – and doubtless a thousand times more foolish.
But it’s true, nonetheless, that the heart itself nearly always succumbs to its own kind of foolishness even apart from the head.
A foolish heart first breathed into the dust so long ago, only to set a course that cried out for love’s irresistible return. And return it did, even if reason itself would had suggested monstrous failure.
But the heart is like that.
Love doesn’t instinctively embrace objective reality, for love recognizes a warmth and a depth and a fullness that endlessly overwhelms the mirror’s flush reflection.
At the root of it all, we were gifted with a love that is altogether foolish and exceedingly lavish.
We need only mimic the giver in order to get it just right.
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