Not the kind you see in the movies or hear about on the radio.
The real kind.
The kind that gets beaten down and bloody, yet perseveres.
The kind that hopes even when hope seems foolish.
The kind that can forgives. The kind that believes in healing.
The kind that can sit in silence and feel renewed.
The real kind of love.
It’s rare and we have it..
I want to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.
Mary Oliver, Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays (via hierarchical-aestheticism)