I have started to believe that love is not a virtue but a state of disfigurement.
Loving one thing fully means gradually understanding its connection to everything else: life to death, beauty to grief, desire to absence. Nothing exists in isolation. Every attachment bears the weight of the whole.
What concerns me is not just love itself, but its tendency to expand. The face of the beloved shows up everywhere — in strangers, gestures, fragments of memory, passing silhouettes. The world becomes filled with echoes.
I am trying to live within the question without reducing it to convention or performance. Maybe that is the only honest thing left: not resolving love, but enduring its vastness.
