I stupidly used to think it was cliche when my husband would say that the only thing that's real is love. I still couldn't quite understand what that meant.
But when he died, everything I thought I was and everything I was trying to be died with him. The only thing that had remained of me was love. Love for him, love for the people in my life, love for the world, and love for the very fabric of existence. Even my anger, pain, and hatred stemmed from misinterpreting love.
Petty shit doesn't matter. Everybody fucks up. And love IS the only thing that's real.
Take care of each other. Be compassionate, even when you can't understand someone. The world is already so full of hate. Stop taking each other for granted. Life and even ourselves are only meaningful because of the people who love us.

















