“One night Pietro Crispe sang. Macondo woke up in a kind of angelic stupor that was caused by a zither that deserved more than this world and a voice that led one to believe that no other person on earth could feel such love. Pietro Crispe then saw the lights go on in every window in town except that of Amaranta. On November second, All Soul’s Day, his brother opened the store and found all the lamps lighted, all the music boxes opened, and all the clocks striking an interminable hour, and in the midst of that concert he found Pietro Crispe at the desk in the rear with his wrists cut by the razor and his hands thrusts into a basin of benzoin.”
An excerpt from One Hundred Years of Solitude by Jose Garcia Marquez
We can’t determine what lies ahead of us. But when we truly found the very person that would mean a world to us, that’s the beginning of our spontaneous daydreamings of how we will live our life, how we design it and how we end it in the favor of love.
Love, really is not a work of fairies and dusts, that will just happen once we wish upon a star. It’s an accident or unseen course that will just appear before we know it. It will just be there sitting comfortable on the sofa of the living room, not daring to knock, not asking for permission to enter. Bearing bags of pleasure, pains and tragedies. This is reality, love is a general thing that even makes my own perception of it unreliable. But that’s how I look at it, and that’s how I believe.
Our ability to care, to wonder what will happen of us and do things in the desires of our heart will wheel us to consequences usually what we haven’t transpired. In the process, it’s painful and gratifying, much as what we needed to grow and mature. But in the end, it’s a two faced embrace of whether a heartache or happiness. And what’s more terrible, it’s a tragedy that whether we like it or not, will always have its casualty.
In His Thoughts 