I see love as an extreme sport.
It's comparable to hang gliding.
There's a chance you'll crash.
There's a chance you'll hit the ground.
Hard.
And cold, solid, bitter reality will slap you in the face.
And be like "What were you thinking?"
But you just pick yourself up.
And take yourself back to the top.
So you can jump again...

Or there's the chance that you don't fall.
That you fly.
That a gust picks you up.
And you soar.
And keep flying.

Endlessly.

Or maybe falling in style.
That you eventually land.
Nice.
Soft.
Safe.

Or you could crash.

Either way, you get up.
And do it again.
Until you eventually soar.
And keep flying.

Endlessly.