🌹🖤There is always someone +01

🌹🖤There is always someone who knows more than us, someone who wants to teach us how.

I gladly listen when it comes to something that has nothing to do with the heart.

You can teach me to sew, 

to play chess, 

to make a cake, 

to dance.

You can explain to me ancient history, 

philosophy, 

constellations and the sea, 

but - categorically - you cannot explain love to me.

You can't put pen into it, 

in my way of giving or holding back.

You cannot insist with your theses, 

which are all yours, 

to show me at any cost what is right and what is wrong for my skin, 

for my eyes and for my hands.

You can't know how to do it for me, 

who am so different from you.

The trouble we combine more often and the mistake we make more willingly is thinking that feelings are universal, 

all the same, 

easily understandable by anyone because "that's how it works".

But no.

Instead it works that there are no two identical hearts on earth, 

there are no two identical ways of feeling.

Maybe similar, 

but not identical.

And you insist on repeating that you know very well, 

who should break up and who should be together, 

that you can see very well who you love and who doesn't, 

that love when it arrives is irrepressible and breaks you, 

you can't hide, 

you can't. 

can mask.

But no.

And instead I want to tell you that love in certain homes lurks in gestures full of modesty, 

that love in some cases knows how to end and then start again, 

that love for certain beginnings passes through them with tenderness, 

without any violence, 

without devastating. .

I want to tell you that love is not always just crying and suffering, 

being in the midst of the storm without seeing the shore anymore and love is not always just a big party, 

a good game that we would like never to end.

Love is also about building, 

arming oneself with patience and trying to understand.

It is also being bored without being afraid.

It is also little endurance and then not being able to help but smile.

It is also wrong.

There are those who find it in a glance, 

those who find it in a caress, 

those in a night spent talking on the phone, 

those who cannot do without physical contact, 

those who perceive it in silence, 

those who realize they are laughing louder and even a little more often, 

who realizes it after all the others, 

who is afraid and runs away, 

runs away, until he finds someone who does not tire of looking, 

who can only imagine, 

who waits at the window every evening, 

who does not he does nothing but remember, 

who continues undeterred to write love letters, 

who does not know how to say.

Those who take hands and roll up their sleeves because he knows it will not be easy at all.

Beautiful, 

almost always, but not easy.

When I watch people walk I don't see their faces, 

I see their wounds.

There are those who still have some bleeding, 

there are those who have conspicuous scars and those who do everything to hide them.

There are those who have one of those cuts that never seem to heal and those who have an infection in progress.

Nobody is saved from wounds.

Nobody, not even the children.

And do you know what leads us to love in a certain way and not in another?

The pain we felt, 

that's right.

The times we felt invisible, 

the words that pierced us, the abandonments we suffered, 

the goodbyes we inevitably found ourselves saying, 

the deaths we had to witness, the insecurities we carry inside from time immemorial.

So you see?

How can you think that one wound can resemble another?

That we all have the same pain threshold?

All that can be said about love is that those who truly love do not enjoy spreading the edges of our wounds, 

do not wallow in them, do not cling to them.

The rest, 

all the rest, 

is another story...🖤💖💗💕💓💘💞💝