You are too good to be a writer. I love you. You flourish in your emotions—I just love it. You are bright in your thoughts—love it, love it. Extraordinary love, indeed.
In the season I loved you, I felt it in my heart, and all the notable faces of fate turned towards me to see if I had become strong in my pursuit and how my wheels stayed so stable despite the thorns on my path.
The cloaks of fate grew eager to learn of my uproarious skills. And they discovered that even the dead had once engaged in worthwhile activities during their lives.
Their innate selves began to check their own batteries, and one old cloak, rich with the wisdom of bygone times, held the middle pages of my book. She sensed the bloodied tears soaked into those pages and turned to the next one. It was not as weathered as the previous page, but rather a reflection of a broken heart. The remaining pages of hopefulness held the fragments of that heart, which never gave up on mending.
So the old cloak rendered her verdict: When you love, you open your heart and learn how to love, even if you don’t quite know how. That will at least lead you towards peace in the gentle light surrounding love and will offer rest to your heart.
So the writer I knew truly loved love with the core of their heart and overflowing enthusiasm. My heart says—I am obliged and privileged to have read all of you until this day, and I will continue to learn from you.
Please accept my heartfelt gratitude, warmed by the tears of enthusiasm to immerse your heart in love.