Това е нещо, което написах преди вече почти 5 години, но има специално място в сърцето ми, защото продължава да е точно толкова истинско, колкото тогава. И дори хората, на които е посветено, никога да не го видят, аз съм щастлива, че продължават да изпълват всяка част от живота ми, да ме вдъхновяват, да ме разсмиват и разплакват, да ме обичат заради всичко и въпреки всичко, което съм и не съм, и да ме карат да се гордея с тях, със себе си, с нас.
On
Love
To my dear colleagues, who always remind me of upcoming deadlines , who
even occasionally let me use their title page; To my colleagues, who suffered
with me through the whole process of writing this; To my colleagues who finally
give me the paper, the staples and the momentum to write it. I love them deeply.
There are currently over one million words in the
English language, yet none of them as hard to explain and grasp as the one I am
about to write. Love. We use it so much and understand it so little, it has
turned into an avoided cliché. It
is something that is always around us wherever we go and still sometimes we
fail to recognize it. So here is what I know about love.
Love is as light as the whisper that utters it. And as heavy as the sigh between heartbeats. Love is the touch of your hand and the smell of your mother’s hair that lingers on your cheek. Love is crazy and wild, and young, the flutter of wings inside your chest. It is calm and kind, eternal as the rocks. It is blue as the ink of your pen as it spreads on the paper .And red as a kiss. And golden with sunlight. But most of all it is black, for we feel it best with our eyes closed.
Love is a mother. It bears meaning. It creates. It hugs, it slaps, it teaches. We take it for granted. We miss it when it is gone. But we can never live without it. It is our beginning. And no one can love like a mother does. A mother’s love is not selfish or erratic. It knows no gender, no age, no limits. It is unconditional. A mother gives away her body as well as her soul and is never rendered a single being again. For love binds tighter than an umbilical cord.
Love is as light as the whisper that utters it. And as heavy as the sigh between heartbeats. Love is the touch of your hand and the smell of your mother’s hair that lingers on your cheek. Love is crazy and wild, and young, the flutter of wings inside your chest. It is calm and kind, eternal as the rocks. It is blue as the ink of your pen as it spreads on the paper .And red as a kiss. And golden with sunlight. But most of all it is black, for we feel it best with our eyes closed.
Love is a mother. It bears meaning. It creates. It hugs, it slaps, it teaches. We take it for granted. We miss it when it is gone. But we can never live without it. It is our beginning. And no one can love like a mother does. A mother’s love is not selfish or erratic. It knows no gender, no age, no limits. It is unconditional. A mother gives away her body as well as her soul and is never rendered a single being again. For love binds tighter than an umbilical cord.
And finally,
if you look at a photograph, any photograph, regardless of what it portrays,
then love is what you will see right there – the love of the photographer for
his craft. Because love is passion.
Love is a
favorite meal on your palate, love is music. Love is simple. It is a moment
seized. Love is beauty. Love is the true measure of life.
Love can mean many different things to many different people. Quite opposite
things, even. Love is a smile and a frown, a blessing and a curse. It is the
voice of our childhood and the thrill of our adulthood. A hug, a picture. A
memory. A hope. It is full of beans, it is black and blue. The important thing
is, love changes. So forget everything you read. Love just is.