There was love that came from out of nowhere: this I have experienced. Why, as Oscar Wilde said, that the mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death: why there is something instead of nothing is that love is simpler. It is that which is more real than the feeling, because not only can it move mountains, it already has. We just don’t notice these things anymore, because the miracle has happened so consistently so many myriad times. And maybe in my case, it was not that there was love from out of nothing, for there is a world ever present even when we are the most destitute, and even the lilies of the field, which own nothing, are arrayed in garments finer than Solomon’s grandest. But still, these are miracles — that our hearts can break and mend, that we can love without any reason why.
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