We aim ourselves at success in odd ways, call ourselves triumphant with bizarre bars we set ourselves, never do we ask why. We think arriving is the point, think finishing the adventure is the point of it all, forgetting the oldest of old cliches, that it's not about where you end up, but how you get there. It’s the journey, friends, not the destination. Love is this way, I’ve been thinking lately, precisely this way. We set milestones for love, maybe anniversaries, maybe different grand romantic gestures, maybe declarations of a certain magnitude. Often, we even set the understanding of this love as a guidepost worth reaching for, hoping that those we love will see it and learn it and know it as though it was their own. Fruitless, I believe this, impossible and misguided.
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