It's late! It's late, damn it! I was late for so many things, missed so many, squandered so many chances. Old age came crashing through the door— when, how, I couldn't say… It slipped in quietly, imperceptibly, like a clever thief… Too late now to set things right, even my dreams couldn't catch themselves… Yet I had to dream! Had to make them real! So I know why I'm going to die. I had to… I missed so many trains, so many places, never found the time for— thinking, searching, struggling, falling, rising— couldn't do it, never even learned to crawl! It's late, I never flew to so many places in this life… missed fame, turned my back even on pride, waiting for that happy moment, that joy. But thank God, I understood one thing— In this life, the most important is to love! And the rest?—the rest is just empty vanity! To be loved…
# To Love, Not To Be Loved Love is not a coin that buys affection in return— it is the giving of oneself into the void, not knowing if an echo will ever return. To love is to pour water into a cupped hand that may open and spill it, or hold it for a moment, or drink it without thanks. The lover asks nothing except to love— this is the terrible freedom, this is the only truth that does not demand proof. We are taught to expect return, to measure devotion in glances, to weigh the heart's worth by what comes back. But love that keeps accounts is a merchant's love, not love at all. To love, truly love, is to release the rope and watch it fall into darkness, trusting that somewhere, someone is warmed by its length. Perhaps they never know. Perhaps they never care. Perhaps they love another with the fire meant for us. And still— still we love. This is the nobility and the madness, the wound that does not close, the prayer spoken to an empty sky. To love is not to be loved back. It is to burn anyway.
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