Love that has grown sweet and found its way to every sense lies warm in your heart, bright in your eyes, and tender in your voice. Instinct follows its scent sometimes across oceans, sometimes across towns, and sometimes across the years. For love there is no prescription and no formula. It is the spontaneous awareness of a loveliness that pulses both inside and outside your veins. It is a consciousness that ignores borders, disregards inhibitions, sees a chance for the impossible, and turns its back on age.

The soft glow of love that comes to fill your heart wipes away the scars even of the grossest slight. Love's softness makes the most defenceless situation stand firm and impenetrable. Love gives sight to your spirit and hands to your emotions. It is the language of your heart, with a melody as fragrant as the damp smell of dry earth after a warm summer shower. The walls of your heart become transparent so that no thought in your head and no longing in your heart is hidden any more. It shows in your eyes, in your laugh, and in your hands. The soft drawing-close of your heart becomes the destiny of everyone within the reach of your touch. Because your hands do not want to miss what your heart interprets, or your mouth what your eyes are giving away.

Love inspires on the deepest level of our humanity — there where feelings have their origin, and where our personality, clearly etched, is mirrored back in our comings and goings. A love that is finely felt and greater than your own capacity to receive it is a power stronger than any bars or fetters. It sees hope, forgets trespasses, and remembers the beauty.

Even when the night, in silence, keeps lamenting its blind aloneness inside your emotions, your own forsakenness echoes back in distress-tight harmony, and your head steers your heart in a course-true direction away from the longing that tortures and from thoughts that mill. The night has its own little grains of hope. It spends them frugally, but never superficially and never without feeling. The night tucks you away into its dark embrace, which hides you from the sorrow experienced by everyone who has been left alone. Feelings that feed on tender moments of remembering then hold you close.

Just as landscapes are shaped inside your heart and soul, and not inside your eye, so too do people take form and meaning as your heart conditions your eye to colour in what is possible rather than what is difficult [Do you mean here 'what is possible and not what is difficult'?]. Love is so much more than a feeling. It is an ability. A capacity which some have in larger measure than others. Out of a soft spirit you can certainly press [press?] more than out of a rigid soul. To hold on to the origins of life is a daily art that enlarges your heart once you have mastered it. It means contact with your own heart — especially when defencelessness strikes and walks, uninvited, arm-in-arm with you.

There must be someone in our life who makes sure we take sensitivity in large doses — as medicine against unfeelingness and self-sufficiency. A petrified ego and numbed feelings are symptomatic of a shortage of tender sensitivity, of cherishing — someone's hand in yours. Eye contact where hearts hold each other and you push through someone's spirit without leaving behind a broken place or a bruise in their feelings.

In the end, each person's destiny becomes the bridge you build to the one your heart chooses.

Groete Amanda Kreitzer