Let speed prostrate in a dragged crawl and, life be picked up. Perhaps every slice of leaf descends from its affirmed roots to settle for settling down on better grounds. How delicate and vulnerably fragile love is, with the irony of love itself being reason, cause and effect of strength and faith in a wholesome being. The constant choke and swallow of undesired breakdowns cause wear and tear.

What becomes of us, but meer mannequins of the weak and undecided? Which are those better grounds? Am I the leaf or the reason of its foundation?

Love moved a mountain of barriers off this gilded heart of mine. Love reshaped perceptions and developed an urgency towards commitment. Love approved monogamy in a stubborn stereotype. Love forked out plenty, just like me, yet returns are unpredictably disheartening. And love, is never calculative, uncouth or spiteful; it's us. I'm uncertain if I'm still a lover of love, but I do love and am loving.

Happiness and love; which would be your choice of the two?