About All Sorts of Loves

The world ends, numerous times, for each of us. It crashes and sinks under waves of agony.

At the bottom, in a dense, ocean-like darkness, it catches glimpses of what would mean a new breath. And that alone is enough for a new beginning.

The beauty of it all is the strong contrast. The paradox. The unyielding, unidentified, perpetual source of trouble. And our response to it.

Life is nothing more than a blend of people who love us, leave us. The weak and the strong. And all those who pass by in between.

Stories which only seem to end but they never do.

Merging souls under the incandescence of all sorts of loves.

The liquid heads moving into the same motion, with their eyes closed, with their fingers pitching cords.

The silky skirts that lift and flutter, the painters who paint them and the lips who tremble echanted.

The violins spiraling through our torso, breaking down the Earth with the intensity of lightning.

Well, isn’t that something worth all loss ?


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