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 entwined 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 away, and this is
both an art and a fortunate accident.
"Love is
the beauty of the soul."