"Girls, Women, the Fairer Sex are all like this! They love through their ears and are moved by their hearts.
Three-quarters of the world's population are just so!? They cherish the sweet words of their beloved, then dream of some paradise spoken of by relationship experts. Even if it causes turmoil. They are moved by their own hearts, ready to give away the most precious things they possess to prove the love they found. Even if others call it foolish or naive.
A friend of mine went through his college years with a reckless, rose-tinted romance in that student sky, only for it to end when he received his diploma. He doesn't blame the one who left; he keeps the beautiful parts to himself amidst his tears, refusing to follow advice to forget, because those moments are invaluable, perhaps called memories. Invaluable because he gave without considering the eventual ache, the profound pain. Invaluable because he gave without measuring or counting the cost. Love—who can measure its depth or shallowness!? Invaluable because it shows his heart beats with a truly human rhythm.
When love is full of longing.
He listens to a different sorrow. It rises quietly in the maid's heart when the house is empty late in the day. The two women talk to each other about missing their husbands and children. They converse to lighten the emptiness in their hearts. Amidst the crowded streets, why is the heart so hollow? Silently gazing into the distance, looking toward a hometown where husband and children await. Longing to hear the familiar call: Mommy. Clearly, that young woman is now a woman. Calculating her age, she's still in her twenties, a few years younger than him. Lulling life to sleep.
Shared pain replaces faith when hope shatters.
Two women. Miles apart. One in the lowlands, the other deep in the mountains. A shared fate in life's conditions. The lover died in battle, returning home to rest beneath the beloved motherland. They never met, connecting only through him as a bridge, through an embrace amidst the sound of rain at night. They understood each other's feelings. Miles apart. A sorrow so profound it lasts an eternity. A worry that gnaws until the end of life. They seek solace in faith when the heart no longer has room for fragility, having endured too much scorching sun, relentless rain, fading dew, and whipping wind. The two women. Hoping to meet one morning. In peace.
They are like that! They are like fragile crystal. Sometimes. They are like a solid colored marble, rolling tirelessly on all flat, inclined, or vertical surfaces, and only crack when inadvertently subjected to the fires of pain. One would think only men could truly understand how fragile women are. But alas, that is still not enough, because only women truly understand what women need in life, rarely defined by what is called love in life's many facets.
...
And then there are the boys, the men, the stronger sex—they are all like that! They love through their eyes and are moved by their hearts. Born to learn to love. Distracted. Many times. Confused by fits of anger, not knowing that every age is much the same. They whisper love, yet the words are unclear; prying a few simple words out takes forever; even though deep down they know that's all she needs. Only when they fully accept their own foolishness and naivety; boys and men are not so different in their failure to articulate their love perfectly, instead placing their affections in deeds, while the whispered words of love remain incomplete.
A friend of his cherished a secret, foolish college crush, only to see her break up with her partner upon graduation. His one-sided love remained foolish. Post-graduation. They lost touch. First love is an unfinished, forced kind of affection, patching oneself up to form a semblance of love. Drinking, tasting life. He slaps his thigh, wishing he could go back to that day, swearing he wouldn't hesitate, for the timid boy he once was is now dead. He went to work. They met again. He comforts her heart, as if mending a broken basket.
Mediocre because they mistake fleeting affection for love; never stopping to think thoroughly, deeply. Mediocre because they accept without thinking; Love—who thinks about receiving or giving!? Mediocre because they let their heart skip a truly human beat.
When love is full of longing.
He listens to a different sentiment. It rises quietly in a person's heart when sharing a puff of smoke and a drink. The two men talk to each other about their own conquests. Conversing to ease their minds, to lightly brush aside a topic... wife and children. The street is crowded, the room empty of a lone heart. Silently looking towards some distant point, gazing towards a place where a woman and children wait. The smoke stings the eyes. Longing to hear the calls of affection at the end of the workday: Honey, Daddy. Clearly, the boy has become a man. Bearing the weight of a household for only two words: responsibility. Lulling life to sleep. Like the necessary rest note between continuous musical notes.
May love endure forever. (Image: Collected) (P/S: For the women I love, on October 20th)
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