You often tell me that I am scandalous, that I have always been disobedient. I can't be boring and banal. Story! Still love me! That's how he chose me. Don't expect me to be gray— I'm a storm breaking through a cloudless sky. I can't hide my feelings. Don't expect peace from me. Don't try to re-educate me. You can hardly tame me. Even in my dream, I will wander through the night, and you will blame me in your dream. But if you claim that I am important to you, you must respect my freedom. The humble calm is terrible— As love is born in the storm.
# Love Is Born In The Storm Love is born in the storm, not in the still of evening, not in the garden where roses arrange themselves in perfect rows. Love comes with thunder, with the sky split open, with rain that forgets its manners and beats against the window like a fist. It arrives uninvited, drenched and wild, leaving mud on the white sheets, breaking the vases we kept for guests. Love is not the candle we light at dinner, not the careful words we rehearse in the mirror. Love is the electricity that makes your hair stand on end, the moment you stop recognizing yourself, when the compass spins uselessly and you don't care which way is home. It is born in the storm because only then do we forget to be afraid— afraid of being too much, too loud, too entirely ourselves. Only in the thunder can we scream without apology. Only in the deluge can we drown and call it dancing. Love is born in the storm, and we emerge drenched, gasping, alive— finally, finally alive.
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