I have a reckless habit of diving headlong into love. I’m the one who leaps without hesitation, casting aside caution and leaving my heart unguarded. No walls, no moats, no watchful sentinels, just an open door, waiting to be crossed. When your love called to me, I rushed toward it, drawn like waves to the shore or roots to fertile earth. I don’t fear the fall or falling short; the plunge itself is where life resides. My heart, a glowing ember, yearns for a spark, igniting into a fire of passionate desire. I crave connection, the touch, the intimacy, the raw beauty of love in all its ebb and flow. I’ve always understood the risks. Each whispered confession carries the weight of uncertainty, the chance that these feelings may not bloom. Yet I leap anyway, without regret, without armor. Vulnerability is my compass, for only through openness can I embrace the fullness of love’s offerings. And even if I emerge bruised and broken, it’s within those ruins that the art of love is most vividly painted. Call me reckless if you will, or a fool. Perhaps I am. But I would rather dive in with abandon, drowning in the depths and soaring in the heights, than live without ever truly loving. To love fully, to risk everything, is to truly live before I die.
