Love is a temporary madness.
It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides.
And
when it subsides you have to make a decision.
You have to
work out
whether your roots have become so ent
wined together
that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because this is
what love is.
Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement,
it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion.
That is just being in love
which any of us can convince ourselves
we are.
Love itself is
what is left over
when being in love has burned a
way,
and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
Your mother and I had it,
we had roots that gre
w to
wards each other underground,
and
when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches
we found that
we
were one tree and not t
wo.
~ Captian Corelli's Mandolin.
