A few random thoughts I had tonight, while reveling in the glorious silence of my living room:
Love is a gift, given as a representative of the giver's esteem, admiration and affection. The receiver can tear off the paper, excited only about what might be inside the box, never noticing the time and effort the giver has put into its trappings, or it can be unwrapped slowly and savored, bit by bit - the perfectly measured cuts, the careful creases, the ribbons and bows chosen thoughtfully - every lovely gesture noted, appreciated and treasured as much as the actual token itself.
Like a delicate rose, when tended with the utmost care, love can bloom beautifully and weather each season for eternity. When neglected however, beware its thorns. It will wither and die on the vine, never to be seen again.
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