“Love is the mystery of mysteries” – and so it remains, though something tangible can be said of it – that it differs between people and one’s love varies in both kind and intensity – as between husband and wife, parent and child, lover and loved, between two friends, or even two enemies. There is no finite store of love in each of us. It is bottomless and never runs out, though often the show of it can be so artfully disguised as to not be recognized or recognizable.
Love is in the little contacts with each other, the repository of familiar warmth, trust and attraction. It is in the knowing of how a certain woman softly pulls up her sheer black stockings, or how much brown sugar your daughter rumpled up in her pyjamas at the kitchen table. Love seems rarely to last on a grand scale, a drama which is difficult to constantly sustain before it dissipates and drifts into memory.
There are different shades of love – its subtleties, heartbreaks and limitations, but also has the effort to reach for its potential. The pursuit of love is what is left most for us to accomplish in life; its reward for glory of glories, but if we fall short, we must remember that, in truth, it is the journey that counts the most.

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