A person can love as much as one wants, as many as one desires; but still, one must never allow oneself to fall into the trap of loving the other so much that one forgets the self as the creator of that love. Whenever this happens, one doubts all relations that one may had and have and may have. This is the death of the once faithful and hopeful servant. One cannot love again as much as one had loved before.

If some twist of fate meddled upon the distraught lover, one may be forced to encounter another beloved that may only injure the sheathed heart turning it into a penumbra of lamentations and silenced tears, of sleepless nights and blank musings or the lover may give us the one of nature’s greatest miracles—

love that endures;

love that knows no bounderies;

love that succumbs all hurts, pains, sufferings and unwarranted guilt;

love that never blinds but sheds light on what truth is, on what the good is supposed to be;

love that leads to happiness beyond words;

love that is incomparable even to music that lulls the soul;

love that will be forever true surmounting the end of time;

love that saves;

a love that loves and nothing else.

Love! If this is the last thing that one has to do.